Your Daddy's Hands
by ThisbeAngel
Summary: Updated Sept. 8. Takes place after the Kay novel. Charles is an adult and is about to have a son. The birth sets in motion the unraveling of a dark family secret and brings to light an almost forgotten past.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This story takes place following the Kay novel, which assumes that Charles is the son of Christine and Erik, though raised by Christine and Raoul. In that novel, Raoul comes to terms with the fact that Charles is probably not his. My story takes place when Charles is in his early 20s. The story is set in the early 1900s in Paris, which will become relevant later on.

This is something I haven't tried before, and I would appreciate all the notes I can get on it. There will be plenty of flashbacks to provide background on Erik, Christine and Raoul.

Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: Charles and Raoul are not mine, or anyone else from POTO. Rosalind and the child are.

* * *

The door remained shut, forbidding my entrance, producing nothing and yet refusing to let me leave. It had been hours of waiting, and just as my eyes began to grow heavy, a sliver of light began to draw itself along the carpet. Immediately, I was at full attention, the midwife regarding me with compassion.

"Nearly there, I believe, sir," she said. "The first birth is always the hardest." She paused for a moment, and then a piercing cry from my wife turned her attention. "Excuse me, M. de Chagny," she said, retreating.

The hours grew less silent as moans and cries came from behind that door, the likes of which I'd never heard before from my wife. And then, just before three in the morning, I heard it- a baby's cry. I waited for the midwife with joyous anticipation, pacing before that door and almost colliding with her when she finally opened it, but the face I saw was not that of a proud nurse, but instead one pale as a ghost. She was shaking as if the devil himself had appeared before her. I could not hear anything anymore.

"Is my wife all right?" I demanded, civility getting thrown out the window in the face of what I assumed was a terrible tragedy. If something had happened- to either of them! - but the midwife stopped my thoughts.

"Yes," she replied. "She is fine. You have a son." The look on her face became unimportant in the face of this news. I had a son! I have to admit, my pleasure was not completely about having a healthy baby. My uncle had had two daughters, and both of them had managed to produce three girls each, I was an only child- the proud de Chagny line would continue after all. I could scarcely wait to write father, but the more imposing demand, of course, was my wife.

"But that's wonderful!" I exclaimed, rushing past her meager attempts to slow me and entering the bedroom.

Immediately, I knew something was wrong, as if the look on the poor midwife's face had not been enough. I'd never been present after a birth before, but the visions of my wife, tired but beautiful, reclining in our bed, our child nestled in her arms, vanished as I took in the sight of Rosalind, looking very upset. I ran to her before going to the cradle that sat in the corner of the room.

"Charles, I want to see our baby," she protested. "Suzette left before showing him to me and I don't understand why!" Rosalind on a good day could be demanding, and this pushed the limits past what I had previously known. Indeed, Suzette seemed to have taken an odd turn. She remained motionless in the doorway, watching this scene play out.

"Well, allow me to be the first to introduce you, then," I said, placing a kiss on her forehead and attending to the small bundle that lay, quietly fussing, in the cradle.

"I want to see him first," she said, with a smile. "I went through all that."

"But of course," I said gallantly. "I shall not so much as peek below the covers before you do. Or at least, when you do." I loved indulging Rosalind, always had, since the first day we'd met after one of my concerts. Of course, I had no idea who she was then, no idea what would come of our meeting, but the journey had been a pleasurable, if at times trying, one. I crossed to the cradle and lifted the squirming bundle carefully, without much practice, and, true to my word, did not peek below the thin blue blanket that seemed to conceal his face before bringing him to my wife. I drew back the cover, and involuntarily drew a horrified gasp, as Rosalind fainted dead away on the pillows. I yelled for the midwife to fetch the priest and doctor immediately, and she, grateful to be out of there, grabbed her cloak and slammed the front door behind her.

_My son..._

He had my green-gold eyes, the curious ones that only my great-grandfather had had, according to my father, and the dark brown hair both Rosalind and myself possessed. But the familial similarities ended there, for my son looked out at the world through sunken eye sockets. He possessed no nose that I could see, and the right side of his face was a mottled red that went beyond typical infant color. I could see the veins running below his thin, pale skin, and his lips appeared twisted. I stared at him with a curious disbelief, not allowing myself to feel horror at the sight of him, until I could take it no longer and held him so I did not have to look on his face. All instinct told me to put him down, leave this unfortunate creature who could not live past the hour in his cradle to die comfortably, and yet, I could not.

Rosalind stirred, easing back on the pillows until she was in a more upright sitting position, and stared at me.

"How..." she started.

"I have no idea," I replied.

"But...it's terrible! It's hideous!"

"Shh," I said. "He is our son."

"I don't see how," she wept. "No one in my family has so much as a blotch on their skin!"

"Well, mine, either," I retored, "but that's hardly relevant here!"

Musical types tend to be more calculating, and, repulsed though I was, terrified as I may have been, the logic of the situation prevailed to me, much like the sequence of notes appearing on a particularly difficult score. I had always had the ability to see past the daunting appearance of fugues and other complicated pieces in a way that put me above my competition, to the point that by my twenty-third birthday- scarcely six months ago - I was reknowned throughout Europe. And it seemed that calculating ability would be what brought me through this trial, however long it may last. Rosalind, far more romantic than I, seemed unable to get past the vision of a perfect son and was sobbing into the pillow, the first step in what I learned would be a deep denial.

I gazed down at him, taking in the long fingers and sharply angular shape to his hands and wrists.

He looked like me.

The priest took one look at my sadly misshapen progeny and immediately prepared a baptism. The doctor, on the other hand, was staring at him with a fascination.

"Amazing," he breathed. "I've never seen something like this in person."

"You mean," I said, "there are others like him?"

"Not that any of us have known," he said. "There are stories, of course, and medical journals allow for the possibility of mutations such as these, but never in my thirty years..."

"Madame?" The priest interrupted our conversation to gain the attention of Rosalind, as despondant as ever. "Madame, I will need his name." Rosalind looked completely confused.

"Charles," I supplied. "He is to be named after me."

"No!" she protested. "No child that looks like that will bear your name!" I stared at her for a moment, and then, cooly, said,

"Then what do you suggest?" When she was silent, I turned to the priest. "Charles William."

"I baptise thee Charles in the name of the father, and of the son, and the holy spirit..."

The priest offered the baby to my wife, who turned her head, and so laid him in the cradle. He departed with a blessing, and I returned to the doctor.

"Do you think he will live very long?" I asked him.

"I have no idea," he replied. "I have no way to know." And with that, he, too departed, and I sat down to write my father in London the news of his grandson.


	2. Chapter 2

All standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

_Dear Father,_

_You will be proud to know you are grandfather to Charles William Jr., born March 28, 19 - -. _

And then I paused. What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to tell him his grandson was for all intents and purposes a freak of nature? He'd never believe it, worse, he would be so upset. Determined, I turned back to the letter.

_He was born with dark hair and my curiously coloured eyes. However, the doctor is concerned about some certain health issues. If at all possible, I would advise you coming to Paris as soon as possible._

Father was in his forties and did not travel from London very much; in fact, the last time he had been to Paris was when we had taken in an opera at the old Populaire when I was 17. He said he didn't have much use for the city, in actuality, I think it brought back painful memories of Mother. Father would tell me stories of her singing voice. Never one to be given to exaggeration, I would have dearly loved to hear her sing in her voice which rivaled the angels', but I never did. After I was born, she wasn't prone to singing very often, and then when she got so sick...I still think of her sometimes, how, even as a young adult, she was so protective of me, so fiercely determined to keep me from any sort of harm. I remembered the evening of my first major piano concert, how she was so proud of me, bought a new dress for the occasion and made sure to get a good seat, it was Father who washed my face after a rather embarrassing case of nerves caused me to vomit, and I begged him not to tell. I believe he never did.

Father and I always had a curious relationship. When I was younger, he seemed to seem almost indifferent to my accomplishments...he was always loving, but it seemed lacking in connection. Mother was always quick to shower me with praise and tell me she was proud of me, but Father seemed more content to watch from a distance, as if to see how the scene might unfold. It wasn't until after she died that he came around a bit more, and we became friends, despite the demanding travel needs of my career.

And then I met Rosalind. I remember playing at a Paris recital. It was Rachmaninov, and throughout the performance, I would glance into the crowd. The same face always caught my eye, it was the brown eyes of a particularly beautiful girl, and whenever I chanced to glance over, her gaze always met my own. I introduced myself to her afterwards...

It was a whirlwind courtship. I had never had time in my career to consider a female companion, though my concerts- and this sounds terribly egotistical - always drew a crowd of young women who were eager to watch me play. I had become aware at a young age that it was not always the music they were drawn to, and had learned early on to avoid unwelcome advances. But this was different. Rosalind was different. She knew what she wanted and knew exactly how to manipulate me - in a good way! - to get it. She was tough to please and prone to fickleness, but I loved her all the same, and she loved me, so it made good sense to get married, a mere eight months and two weeks after our initial meeting.

When she told me she was expecting a child, I was overjoyed. I immediately put a freeze on all engagements past her seventh month and through the approximate third month of our child's birth. I wanted to be there for every moment of his or her early life, I did not want to be preoccupied, as I saw my cousins' husbands, I never wanted my child to doubt my love for him. And now, it appeared that I would be asked to rise to that challenge in a way I never imagined.

"Rosalind?" I asked, knocking lightly on her door. The cradle had been placed in another room, and I had not attempted to hire a nurse. For the past day, it had been up to me to care for little Charles, a task for which I was finding myself wholly unprepared.

"Yes?" I entered the room and saw her bathed in the lamplight.

"Rosalind...about the baby..." at the mention of his existence, Rosalind turned her head away."Rosalind..."

"I don't wish to discuss it!" she said petulantly. I blinked, and prepared to go to battle.

"Well, love, it really isn't a matter of that," I said as tactfully as I could. "You see, Charles has to eat. Charles has to be changed. And I've really no experience in the matter."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? The doctor said I can't get up for four days unless absolutely necessary."

"I will bring him to you." And before she could protest, I walked out of the room, fetched our son, and returned. She refused to look at him.

"My dear, surely you understand..." when she still refused to turn towards me, I found an extra blanket and draped it loosely over our son's face."There, now...you don't have to look at him, but you do have to nourish him. I don't think the milk is doing the trick."

Sensing I was not going to back down on this, she took the bundle from my arms and settled it to her breast, doing her best not to look at him, or me, and I knew she was just as upset with me for forcing the issue as she was about the whole debacle to begin with. But our son needed to eat; I knew that if I knew nothing else. I attempted to leave the room, as there was a new composition I was working on, but as soon as I retreated one step, she called out to me.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to the other room, there's something I need to get down on paper before I lose it."

"But surely you're not leaving me alone!"

"With our son? My dear, yes, I am. You do understand that in three months' time I am expected to start playing again. The concert is on July first, I have to be ready. When you are done feeding him, I will come back and settle him in his cradle." She looked at me with fear in her eyes.

"I...don't want to be alone with him," she protested.

"With your _son_?" I was incredulous. "My darling, surely you understand the time will come when you will have to be. He is your son. You must - we must - raise him here until he is old enough to go to school."

"Until he goes to school? You've got to be mad! No school in the world will take him!" I sighed.

"Well, we have five years to figure that one out. In the meantime, perhaps we should just see to feeding him."

"Stay with me?"

I paused. And gave in. Taking a seat at the armchair, I sat for the next twenty minutes as Rosalind painfully undertook her motherly duties. And then just as quickly returned him to me.

It was going to be a long three months.

* * *

_Raoul_

I stared at the letter in my hands. A grandson! And yet...the same nagging feeling I got when Charles turned six and surpassed both of us in intelligence and ability returned. The proud de Changy line may continue in name, but it was I alone who understood that it was not my line at all, but that of a man whose last name I will never know, who vanished from this earth before his son ever graced it.

Yet, he was my son, too, wasn't he? I was the one who raised him; I was the one who taught him what I knew and was there for all his recitals. Together we mourned his mother and grew closer...if he was not my flesh and blood, he was certainly my family. And now he had his own to marvel in.

The letter mentioned health issues, but I couldn't say I was surprised. Charles himself was a delicate baby, and his wife looked barely strong enough to hold her own weight the last time I saw her. Some doctor had probably seen his opportunity to fill my son with worry and net himself a healthy income at the same time.

Still, I couldn't get the nagging feeling from my mind that I needed to go to Paris and see this child, this Charles. Paris. I could certainly do without visiting the city again. All it held was ghosts.

But I booked a trip all the same, but not before notifying my brother and his family that at long last, there was a boy to carry on the name. My grandson.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you, everyone who has been reading! I encourage you to please review, even if you hate it. This is not an easy story to write and I would love all the feedback I can get.**

**I do not own Charles or Raoul. I do own Charles Jr., Rosalind, and anyone else who was not mentioned in Leroux, Kay, or ALW.**

* * *

If I had any thought that Rosalind might warm up to her son, those hopes were quickly and effectively dashed by the time Charles was three weeks old. She staunchly refused to be in a room alone with him, would not cuddle or talk to him, and would only feed him if I somehow obscured his face, which I managed to do with light blankets. But I knew the day was coming where that would not be enough, and I would somehow have to explain to my son the differences that would separate him from the world.

I had tried to employ a baby nurse- three, as a matter of fact, but after the initial interview, after meeting Charles, I had nothing but three clever excuses why they simply could not handle employment at the de Chagny residence. And, after the third girl, a nervous redhead who seemed to be looking every place but my eyes when she declined employment, no one would come for an interview, either. Rumors run rampant in a city like Paris, and soon word had spread that Charles de Chagny, the handsome concert pianist, had fathered a monster.

A monster! How it pained me to hear those words attached to my son, my only flesh and blood! And yet, how could I deny it? Of course he was human, but his face suggested an otherworldly origin, and I wondered what sort of life he could have at all. He hardly ever cried, rarely demanded any sort of attention, he hardly seemed to be hungry most of the time! I had no idea how to care for a baby and my wife had no idea how to be a mother, it seemed.

I dreaded the day Father would arrive from London, didn't want to see the look on his face when he met Charles for the first time. I could only hope he had come prepared for the worst, only then might he be able to understand. I knew it was a futile hope, but I clung to it like a drowning man does a life raft, praying someone would be able to understand and make sense of this madness. Each day stretched on into eternity, and I had no idea what I would do when it came time to return to work.

The day Father was to arrive, Rosalind and I had a terrible fight. She, once again, was refusing to feed our son, as he had grown adept at pulling his blankets off. And I had had quite enough at this point.

"What is the matter with you?" I yelled, my patience sapped by long nights of little sleep. "He's your son! Your only son! I don't understand why this is so difficult for you to grasp!"

"Are you insane? You don't understand? Have you been struck blind?"

"Have you been struck on the head? He can't help how he looks!"

"And I can't help how I feel about it!" I stared at her. Was it possible I had never seen how selfish she really was? I looked at my wife a long moment, trying to see something that had connected us, but it was gone, seeming to have died with Charles' birth. I could not see her beauty anymore for her demeanor, and the charming wit and demanding attitude that had seemed to charming when we were courting and first married was nothing more than an extra millstone now.

"I don't care how you feel!" I retorted, realizing I was entirely serious. I had never felt anger like this before. "I won't have my son die because you're being an infant over this!"

"I don't believe you," she hissed. "Do you know what they're saying about us? About your son? And you expect me to act like everything's fine! Well, I won't have it!" She turned on her heel, grabbed her cloak and stormed out of the house, nearly colliding with my father as he descended from his carriage.

My father was not an old man, only in his early forties, but ever since mother's death, he had seemed to age a little more quickly. That meant nothing where his mind was concerned, however, though he might drift off into some unknown memory from time to time, he was sharp as a tack.

"I see you've managed to keep the peace," he said with a chuckle, watching Rosalind hail a passing cab with a glare in my general direction.

"Yes, I daresay," I said dryly. At that moment, Charles began to cry again, and I knew he must really be hungry. Well, it would have to be a bottle again. I didn't anticipate Rosalind home any time soon.

"Is that my grandson?"

"Yes, father, that would be him, demanding a bottle, it would seem," I said, trying to delay the inevitable, but it was not to be. He walked past me and followed the sound of the cries until he reached the nursery door.

"Father-" I started, but it was too late. He was looking into the cradle, his back to me, and I saw his hands clench into angry fists.

"That bastard," he muttered, though I was not sure I heard him correctly.

"Father?" Father stood for a long moment, his hands clenched. Finally, he gave a long sigh and turned back around.

"I'm sorry," he said.

_Raoul_

That bastard! I thought we were done with this long ago, I thought this little play had come to an end! But it isn't enough for you, is it, Erik? You gave me 23 years to dwell on this, and just as the wound began to heal, this!

I had no idea what emotion might have been playing on my face, and I had no idea what to say to my son. _But he isn't your son, not really_, the inner voice that had taunted me so many years ago challenged. I thought that voice had gone away so many years ago, but here it was, once again. I knew only that Charles should not know about this.

Charles relieved me of my duty to answer.

"It's an awful shock, isn't it?" he said grimly.

"Yes," I managed, struggling a bit more than I'd have liked.

"Father, what is it?" _Father! And this boy would call me grandfather!_ I thanked God that Philippe had never fully known the story of the Phantom of the Opera, only what inaccurate tales the papers had told.

"Nothing, son," I said as normally as possible. "I am sorry about this. I hope you will manage to give him as good a life as possible."

"So then…you think he will live?" He did not say it reluctantly, rather with a curious tone that suggested no one else quite believed he would see childhood.

_If he's anything like his grandfather, I daresay you'll see another fifty years at least from him,_ I thought to myself, but quickly banished the thought.

"Something in his eyes," I said, as convincingly as I could. "Something tells me there's a reason he's here."

And perhaps, short of tearing my family apart, there really was.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thank you so much for your kind reviews! I wanted to try something different, so I'm glad it's been well-received so far. Please continue reviewing, positive or negative, as it really does help me shape the story.

Disclaimer: You know I don't owe the famous ones. Charles William and Rosalind are mine.

**

* * *

****Charles**

By the time Charles was three, I wouldn't have been able to recognize my life if I hadn't been living it.

Rosalind had come back that night my father came to visit, long enough to grab some clothes and leave once more. She remarried soon after, to a wealthy gentleman whose reputation was well-known, if not untarnished. Though it seemed the entire Parisian nobility knew of Charles' disfigurement, it was obvious someone with looks such as Rosalind's would not remain unattached for long. I let her go, it was clear to me that she did not want to stay, nor would she have been a good mother to the boy. As surprised as I was by her leaving, I was equally surprised to learn that, after the sting of her betrayal had worn off, I did not miss her very much. I could only imagine how miserable the boy would have been under her care, though I doubted he was very happy under mine.

I understood music, I did not understand parenting. Much of his first year was handled by my standing exasperated in his doorway, hearing his cries and demanding, 'what do you want?' after it seemed I had tried everything to quiet him. Of course, by the time he was thirteen months old, he had no trouble telling me in a disturbingly articulate voice exactly what he desired. Usually, he wanted me to read to him, even at a young age, he had a voracious appetite for books.

He was intelligent, I had no doubts about that. By the time he was two, he could escape from any sort of confinement I could contrive. I did not like to keep him confined to any place, it seemed he detested that more than anything, but without a nanny, and with the demands of my work, it had to be done sometimes. Little Charles was like a monkey, the second I sat down to compose, he would be in my lap, trying to have his own turn at the keys. If I sat down to practice, he was right there, making up words to the music. He also showed an uncanny ability for drawing, which I did not understand, never having been particularly artistic myself. I presumed he got that from his mother, and he enjoyed drawing houses and other buildings to the best of his very young ability. It amused me greatly to see my son, who was normally a boundless streak of energy, sitting quietly at my large desk, on his knees on the chair to reach the surface, for sometimes as much as an hour, sketching seriously. The drawings were crude, but they held his attention like nothing else, except for the piano. When I sat down to it, there was nothing that could keep him away. Well, he came by that honestly enough…

"Papa, how does the clock chime?"

"Well, son, it has this mechanism in it, and so at certain points of the hour-"

"Yes, Papa," he said, somewhat impatiently, "but how does the mechanism work?" And with that I would be off on some search through the library to find something that might satisfy his curiosity. I imagined that when he was old enough to read, this might keep his attention as well, the endless search for facts and answers. He was also interested in the church, though at his present age his interest was limited to the colors in the stained glass windows and the sung Mass, I dreaded the day when he came to me with some complex religious question!

Yes, I took him into public, and because of my station, no one dared to make fun of the boy, at least not in front of me. However, I always took the precaution of fixing a piece of thin leather over the majority of his deformities, curiously, little Charles did not object to this and would sometimes come to me while in the house, asking to wear the mask and saying he would like to pretend he was a spy.

He had no idea about his physical limitations, and I would not tell him until he was old enough to fully understand. No one in my family was permitted to speak of it in front of him, indeed, most of them were struck dumb the first time they saw him but kept their own counsel. Perhaps Father had warned them…

Father had moved back to Paris shortly after Rosalind's departure. He always volunteered to watch the boy when I had to perform, a service for which I knew I could never repay him.

"Nonsense," he said the first time I expressed my gratitude, when Charles was six months old. It was the evening of my first performance since his birth, I had been obliged to push back my return by a few months and was anticipating not being able to return for several years before Father moved to Paris. Most of the work was local, though I planned to travel more when the boy was older. It was simply too much trouble with a baby, and an even greater challenge when that infant became a small boy with far too much creativity and dexterity. When he was old enough to better understand how to mind, then, perhaps, I could tour more. It wasn't that he was badly behaved, in fact, it was quite the opposite. As long as I was kind to him, he obeyed me. Well, he tried to. He would just get so curious, and that intense longing to know how, or why, would inevitably lead him to seek his goal, despite my warnings. And yet, I found it very hard to be angry with him, he was always so pleased to learn something new, even as a young, young child.

And I expected that life was going to be cruel enough to him; if I could make him feel safe in his own home before he realized how rare that might be, all the better. I dreaded when he was to start school, but knew that he was advancing very quickly and would need formal instruction before the requisite five years of age. I knew that if I did not get him into some kind of education routine, he would try to find out on his own. He already had…

The night had been late when I returned from a concert at a local hall. Father greeted me at the door with a strange expression on his face.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, looking about the room for Charles, then a few months past his second birthday.

"Yes, fine," he said, tightly. "Charles went to bed for me hours ago."

"Well, that's good, then!" I said, knowing full well that Charles in a cantankerous or talkative mood could make bedtime a challenge. But Father's expression didn't change. "What's the matter?"

"He asked to have a look at my pocket watch," he explained. "I didn't think it could do any harm, so I handed it to him. Then the doorbell rang, so I went to answer it, and when I came back…" he gestured to the hall table, where what I presumed had been his watch lay in pieces.

"Oh, no," I said. "Father, I do apologize…and we will replace the watch."

"There's no need," he said. "It's just a watch, though I must say I'm glad it's not the one your mother gave me. It's what he said afterwards…he told me that he was very sorry, Grandfather, but that if I just gave him a few minutes he could have it back together."

"He said that?"

"Yes."

"Did you give him ten minutes?"

"No…I said it was all right and probably better if he just went to sleep. I think he thought he was going to get in trouble if he didn't mind, so he obliged me."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry about the watch."

"No harm done, just a watch." But he still looked put off by the incident. I offered him a drink, he thanked me but said he had better be getting home, and left shortly.

I don't think either of us doubted that he could have had that back together in less time than that, but I don't think we were ready to believe it.

**Raoul**

I'm watching Charles William again tonight. I don't mind doing it, I dote on him the way any grandfather would dote on his only grandchild, what might well be the only grandchild that he ever has, unless Charles marries again. I don't see him doing it, honestly. He always seemed so put-off at the women who would come to see him play just to get a good look at him- and how ironic that he was such a beautiful youth! – I was surprised when he started courting at all. Or maybe it's just that I'll always see him as that golden boy of 12, coming to me to share all his newest compositions, old enough to talk to me seriously but still young enough that I might catch him running through the garden on a summer day, enjoying the sun before being called inside for supper.

I don't understand how this could have happened. I don't understand why. It seems like if anyone had to raise a child with such unfortunate circumstances, it should have been us. That would have been a fitting price to pay all around, wouldn't it? It's so strange, he let her go with me, and she chose to come, but I've never gotten over the feeling that it was I that took something precious, I that stole something that never belonged to me.

He never belonged to me, either, but I made it fit because I had to, and I love him like I might have loved my own son.

I've forgiven Erik for that whole debacle between the three of us, but I don't know if I can forgive him for doing this to my son. My son. Erik never knew him, though I'm sure he would have liked to. I wonder if he knows now.

That child of Charles' is Erik through and through. He has the looks and the frightening intelligence that Christine always spoke of. Charles, my Charles, though generally intelligent and brilliant in the field of piano, was nothing in the face of this clear genius. That night he took apart my watch - what was he, two? – and said he could put it back together, he was halfway at it when I took the whole thing away and put him to bed. I couldn't watch it anymore, it was so fascinating, and I began to understand how Christine must have felt all those years ago, standing in Erik's house and taking everything in.

It's too painful, but if I owe Christine anything, it's to keep her son safe and happy, and if I can do that by helping to raise my illegitimate grandchild as my own, I'll do it just as I raised her son. And little Charles is taken with me, even though I don't understand him as his father does. I don't think I could.

So many times I've wanted to tell him the truth. So many times when he's been puzzled by something his son has done, or clearly confused as to how all this came about, I've wanted to tell him what I know, wanted to show him his mother's diary, to point him to the people living within miles of his home who could tell him even more. I know where they are, I've kept tabs on them all these years. I've wanted to tell him, but I can't. It would destroy him. It would destroy me. Tt would ruin my family and shatter everything.

I couldn't give Christine what she really wanted, once I understood, it was too late. I couldn't save my son from losing his wife and I couldn't save my grandson from a fate that was going to be all too cruel.

But I could protect them, and I would, until the day I died.


	5. interlude

**A/N: This is just a brief interlude between plot points...I had fun writing it and I hope you enjoy it, too!**

**Thank you SO much for all your reviews! Keep them coming, please! I especially appreciated the comments about schooling, and know that your solution was whatI had come up with (I wrote this before I saw the review):-) I wasn't thinking Charles Sr. would want to send his son to public school, but rather a boarding school (hence the 'most of the raising until he's five' comment). I don't think a private tutor would have hit him right off the bat, after all, _he _went to boarding school in the Kay novel. ****

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**The Diary of Charles William de Chagny, Age 6**

There's something the matter with me. Papa thinks I don't know about it, but I do, because I picked the lock and got into his room and saw the mirror. I'm not supposed to pick locks, or take apart things. Grandfather said I once took apart his pocket watch, but he wouldn't let me put it back together. I said I bet I could have, and he agreed with me. I don't look at all like Grandfather or Papa. I don't look like anyone I know. I think that's why I don't go to school. There are people who come to the house and teach me, but I'd like to go to the big school with the other children. I think it would be fun to read Latin and do algebra problems with the other students. Everyone I know is grown up, except for my cousins, and they don't like to play with me. I don't know if it's because I am a boy or because I am ugly. I don't think it matters.

Papa says I am very smart. I think he says this because sometimes he can't answer my questions, and neither can Grandfather. Once, I asked him a long question about God, and he had to get Father Dupree, and Father Dupree couldn't answer it either. He said it isn't right to question God, but I know it's because I confused him. Sometimes I confuse Papa, like when I made his sheet music disappear. He looked everywhere for it, but I had to make it come back before supper, otherwise I would have been in a lot of trouble.

Papa usually laughs when I do my magic tricks, but Grandfather gets very serious and says that I should be working more with learning the Bible than how to make things disappear. Once, I said I think the house has a ghost in it, and he got as white as a ghost and told me I shouldn't say things like that. I thought Papa would laugh, but he just told me not to bother Grandfather about ghosts. So I told him we should build the house I drew out, and he laughed at that, but my teacher said it was entirely possible, so I just don't think we have the money. Our house is too big anyway for just two people and the maid. I had a mother, and she lived here, too, but now she lives someplace else and doesn't come around. No one told me that, but I overheard Papa talking to Grandfather. It isn't nice to eavesdrop, Papa told me that after I asked him about something the maid was telling her friend (entirely inappropriate for a little boy to know, Charles!), but I have to know what's going on somehow!


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews! Sorry the updates are coming a little slower, I'm in production for a show, but I will try to keep things fairly regular. :-) Please keep all comments and reviews coming...if it was not clear in the notes on thelast entry, I did not mean Erik went to boarding school...Charles (Raoul's son) did. :-) Hope that clears it up!**

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**Charles**

I'm not sure when little Charles figured out his deformity, I was going to tell him, but realized one day that he must have done it by himself. He's stopped asking certain questions and I notice that he no longer has this odd fascination with my locked bedroom door, which suggests to me he has learned to pick locks. I'm not sure where he gets this cunning streak from, but it certainly keeps Father and me on our toes! I keep waiting for him to ask me something about it, but he never does.

"I think you should talk to him about it," Father said to me one night after I had returned from a concert. Charles had just had his seventh birthday and was thrilled not just with his presents but the allowance to stay up an extra half hour, though he was in bed by the time I got home. Father said he usually either wanted to read to him, read on his own or draw. I knew he did not tell me all the times Charles wanted to, or did, dismantle something or threw a fit; he doted on that boy and was in danger of spoiling him, not that I complained.

"I think he already knows," I replied.

"Of course he knows, which is why you need to talk to him about it!" I hadn't considered that would be so important, but Father was right, I couldn't have my son thinking I was keeping something from him. It was yet another thing I hadn't counted on as a parent, but I never claimed to be expert at it.

"How did the concert go?" Father continued, as we sat down in the parlor.

"Very well," I said. "They want me to go on the road next year, but I'm not sure if I should." Father paused, contemplating it.

"I could always watch Charles," he said.

"I am grateful, Father, but I don't think I could leave him," I said truthfully. It was something I needed to consider. The boy who had bemused me so when he was born had grown, over the course of his small life, to be a companion and delight. Many afternoons were spent in the yard playing games together, and I always felt a twinge of regret that he had no brothers or sisters to play with, or even friends. I had tried to arrange something between some of the other children in the area, but was at a bit of a disadvantage, as the mothers appeared to be friends and I was clearly to be the only father, and also because as much as I tried to shield Charles from the truth, the others saw it plainly and shied away.

Once, in church, when he was around four, Charles had fallen asleep and his mask slipped down. I did not notice right away, as I was paying attention to the pastor, and was startled when a small child in the pew in front of us started crying. Her mother went to comfort the baby and saw my son. She hurriedly gathered her daughter on her lap, who pressed her face into her mother's neck, and I re-arranged Charles' mask. He had slept through the whole ordeal, later, I lectured him about snoozing in church, because he would have expected me to. I was just glad he had not been awakened at the cries of the little girl; that would have been something I did not want to discuss.

Of course, I had put it off far too long, and so the next morning at breakfast, I broached the subject.

"Charles," I said casually, but noticed he was examining the grain on the wood table. "Charles!" I said a bit more emphatically.

"Yes, Papa?" he asked, tearing his attention away.

"Charles, I think we need to have a discussion."

"But I told you, it really wasn't me who broke the clock! Not this time," he muttered as an afterthought.

"No, Charles, not about that. It's about…well…why you wear that mask when we go to the market and to church."

"Oh," he said simply, quietly. "I know about that."

"Yes, I know," I said. "But you have to understand that it's just that- a face. It isn't who you are; it isn't what makes you so intelligent or so clever."

"Then why must I wear it when I go out?" The question was not asked in a tone that was meant to bait me, it was asked with a childish innocence that broke my heart. He understood the physical ramifications of his defect, but not what it might mean to others.

"Because, Charles…because not everyone understands what you and I understand," I said.

"And Grandfather, too?"

"Yes, Grandfather understands, too," I said.

"Do…do I scare you with my face?" At that I put down my fork, walked over to Charles' place and hugged him.

"No," I said. "And you never have to wear that mask in the house. You don't have to wear it out, either, if you don't want to, but I think you might."

"Yes," he said, as if he understood all the complications that might result from a change in the status quo. It wouldn't surprise me if he did; it generally took very little to learn new concepts.

"You know," he continued, "when you said that people don't understand, I thought my face was maybe why I don't go to school."

"Oh?" I said, not sure if I liked where this was headed.

"Yes," he said simply. "But I think it's more likely that I am too smart for them." At this I laughed uproariously. Leave it to Charles to state the most egotistical facts with nothing more than a simple tone of voice, as if this were the most basic concept.

"Perhaps," I said, "but, like the reason for your mask, maybe that's something we should keep to ourselves for awhile."

"Can I tell Grandfather?"

"Oh, I suspect he already knows," I said, tousling his dark hair and getting ready to call for the maid to clean up.

"Then I have a question for you, Papa," he said.

"Of course, son."

"Who is that woman you see sometimes?" I started. I had not expected him to know about Angelique, a young woman who had been attending some of my concerts. She was a piano teacher herself and would generally come up and talk to me afterwards. Once, we went for a walk that led past the house, and I had gone out one afternoon to meet her for a meal, but it was far from a romantic relationship. We discussed new trends in the music world, theories, and how best to teach her students, but it had never gone beyond that.

"She's just a friend of Papa's who plays the piano," I said, hoping to leave it at that.

"Like me and you?"

"Well…not exactly," I said. Charles was more talented than most people I knew, but it wouldn't do to tell him that, not when he was clearly self-assured enough.

"I want to meet her," he said, and I paused. I had not told her about Charles' particular issues; though she knew I had a young son and had undoubtedly heard rumors. I did not know where our friendship stood, or where she might want it to go, though admittedly I was afraid of getting involved romantically with anyone, even though I knew Charles could stand to have a mother figure in his life. It was very complicated, and I did not wish to complicate matters more by shaking things up.

"Papa, I wish to meet her!" he declared when I had been silent too long for his liking.

"I know," I said. "I will see what I can do."


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you so much again! I thank you especially for putting up with these sporadic updates- the show goes up in March and if the story isn't done then, I promise updates will be MUCH more quick in coming.**

**I also thank you for putting up with a lot of exposition. I know this may seem like it isn't going anywhere, but I promise you, it is. I will say I don't think Raoul will spill the beans, but there may be a first puzzle piece in this chapter. This is a short one that has to be done in order for the next chapters to get a bit more interesting. I could have gone on with this, but I liked how I ended it, so I left it. It's fluff, but I hope you enjoy.**

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**Raoul**

I have never claimed to fully understand my son, but it really goes beyond the pale to invite this woman to the house! I don't think Charles need be celibate, especially since his former wife seems to have caused most of the problems in his life, but I can't see what bringing this Angelique to the house will do for him. He's a fool if he thinks it's going to be that simple.

**Charles William**

_January 11, 19—_

_Tonight is the special supper, and I am to put on my good suit and make sure my face is clean. Father is going round to pick up Miss Thibeau at six precisely, with dinner to be at six thirty, and we're going to have duck. The cook told me._

_I had to be very good for Father to even agree to the supper, and that meant no sneaking around or magic tricks for a whole week! I can't wait for dinner to be over, because I read about something you can put in a dessert to make sparks, and Grandfather is coming over tomorrow night._

**Charles**

Dinner went quite well, when you factor in Charles' personality and the fact that I hadn't entertained a lady in several years as variables. I suppose I should say the dinner was refreshingly free from magic tricks, ventriloquism and the occasional leaping teacup. I don't doubt for a moment Charles will be off his best behavior now that I've acceded to his request to meet my friend, but at least now I know his curiosity may buy me quiet time.

I tried my best to forewarn Angelique on the cab ride over, she of course knew about Charles' mask, but not much more, and nothing of his personality.

"He's curious," I started, after she had asked about him.

"What little boy isn't?" she laughed, adjusting her gloves. She was more dressed up than I had ever seen her, and I worried she was going to be disappointed in both company and fare.

"I don't mean he wants to know why the sky is blue," I said with a chuckle, "unless he wants to know the exact chemistry of the atmosphere that could make it that way."

"No," I continued, "you're much more likely to get the third degree from him."

"Well," she said, "I shall try to keep my closet skeletons well-concealed." She laughed again, and I hoped it was a good sign of the evening to come.

Indeed, the first course was scarcely served when my impeccably dressed son came forth with his line of questioning.

"How did you and papa meet?" Charles asked, with the disarming innocence appropriate of his age- except that Charles had never acted appropriate for his age and I was immediately on guard. But Angelique handled the question well, and I foolishly started to relax.

"I met your papa at one of his concerts," she said.

"Do you enjoy the piano?"

"Well, yes, but that wasn't why I was there," she said.

"Are you a spy?" She laughed.

"In a way, yes," she said, and I noticed his attention went from whatever calculations he may be making to a childish interest, and I was reminded that above all he was still a little boy, and not immune to the fantasies they hold: part of his intense imagination was still reserved for spies and heroes.

"My brother manages an opera house," she said, "and it is my job to keep a look out for promising talent."

"They don't play piano at operas," Charles said. I wondered how he had known that, I had yet to take him to an opera, presuming he would be bored.

"No," she said, "but sometimes there are singers. Besides, my friend loves piano music and she and I enjoy listening. I teach piano."

"Papa said," he replied. "Perhaps I might play for you after dinner."

"Charles," I interrupted, because while I would let him ask certain questions, I would not let him parade himself for unwitting guests: a short piano concert from Charles could create the position of being in a captive audience for hours on end. He conceded and did not press the issue.

"Does your friend teach piano, too?" he asked.

"No," she said, "she helps teach ballet. We met in dancing school."

"Are you a ballerina, too?"

"No," she laughed, "I am much more suited to the piano."

"Me, too," he said, and turned back to his dinner. The conversation moved onto the topic of music, and then to a new series of paintings at one of the museums. I made a note to visit sometime soon; painting was not something I appreciated nearly often enough.

I kept worrying Charles might catch Angelique looking at his mask, as she was obviously curious, but he was either so equally curious about the new visitor or so used to people glancing at him that it did not provoke him, and things ended peacefully. I turned Charles to bed, instructing him to hang his jacket neatly, as Grandfather would be coming to dinner the next night, and didn't want to think why a devilish light came to his eyes at the reminder.


	8. Chapter 7

**-- (Feb. 6) If you have not been here in a few days, there's another new chapter you need to read first.**

**A/N:The problem, dear readers, when you attempt something like this is that you greatly extend the scope of time past the original story. For instance, Kay ends her novel in 1897, when Charles is 17. He is 23 when his son is born, so…1903, now Charles is six, almost seven, and it's January, making it 1910. That's all I'll say right now. But oh, it's going to get interesting…**

**Thank you SO much to my noters…I appreciate every one!**

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**The diary of Charles William, January 17, 1910**

_Father is going to the art gallery tonight. I wanted to go, but he said it was a party just for grown-ups. He said I would have a much better time at home with Grandfather, but then Grandfather had to attend a different function, so the cook is watching me tonight. I'm excited, because she hasn't seen any of my magic yet! I have to be careful, though, after the sparking dessert, I was punished by not being allowed to play piano for a whole day! I suppose it would have been less harsh if Grandfather's tie hadn't singed...but it was only a little...I have to work that out for next time._

_In school I am learning more about architecture and some calculus. I don't like calculus much, it's very easy but it's not very creative. I like to create things! The other day I designed plans for a cathedral that my tutor seemed very impressed with, and I added on to the operetta I am writing about winter. I rather liked the minor chords to signal the shorter days, but I am not pleased with how I wrote about snow. I think it's too heavy, but I needed to show how cold it was._

_I told Grandfather that when I am done with Winter, I should like to write a requiem. I don't know why he got so pale, but he changed the subject._

_I am lonely. I don't tell Father because I know he tries his best, but just once, I'd like to play with another child, even if they wouldn't be interested in my fugues and buildings. Once, after Mass, when Father was talking to the priest, I walked up to a boy who looked about my age and asked him if he enjoyed flying kites when the weather was nice. It was a windy March day and I thought if he said yes, then I might ask if he would like to come over that afternoon, or some other, and fly kites in the backyard. But he just shook his head and looked around for his mother, who came and told him it was time to go._

_I thought perhaps the boy was just out of sorts, until I went up to a slightly older girl who I had heard singing to herself as she walked out of church. She had a pretty voice, and I wanted to tell her so, but she, too, walked away without doing much to make excuses._

_I wonder if I will ever have friends my own age, if people will want to talk to me for any reason other than my talents. My tutors are working to publish some of my music, and I am excited, but I know that won't matter to other children. They only care about simple, stupid things, but I think it would be fun to play games with them. I could win at hide and seek, I beat Grandfather and Father all the time._

_I suppose I shouldn't let it bother me. I've come this far without them, I don't suppose it will be much harder to continue. I wish I understood. I wish I could make them understand. But even I know you can't explain certain things._

**Charles**

Standing in the gallery, completely unable to see the artwork for all the preening ladies and bragging gentlemen of society, I remembered why it had been so long since I had attended an art gala. At least at piano concerts, the sound of the music forced all in attendance to be still and listen. Here, there was nothing to do but attempt to admire artwork and possibly drink champagne, although I knew that wasn't the point. I had always hated organized events where the sole purpose seemed to see and be seen.

Already I had caught two ladies making their way over to me, and I narrowly avoided them, only to come face-to-face with M. Bellatois, one of the concert hall managers where I had recently played, who seemed all to eager to engage me in discussion.

I was trying to find a tasteful way to listen to his ideas on music and new movements without rendering myself unconscious when I saw a most welcome sight: Angelique, cornered by some aristocrat, looking desperate for escape.

"I do apologize," I said, breaking my acquaintance's reverie for all things Joplin – all the rage on The Continent – for the first time in almost 10 minutes, "but I see an old friend with whom I simply must speak." The man simply nodded, his eye now captivated by a slender blonde who looked entirely unaccompanied.

"Angelique!" I broke in, courtesy for her companion to the wind. There are certain privileges to being respected nobility, one of them being that a little well-placed rudeness can get you quite far. The look on her face told her captor that he had just found himself in the position of third wheel, and he slunk off, his eye now also on the slender blonde who was nodding enthusiastically to whatever M. Bellatois was talking about. Probably ragtime- the man was dead set on the trend, which had started years before in America and was working its way over here, much to the chagrin of many a classical pianist. Even Charles had heard something on it somewhere, but was also more inclined to Mozart and Bach than anything so modern. I supposed I could consider myself fortunate there.

"Charles!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad to see you! I have someone I'd like you to meet."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I could guess she meant her dancer friend. I had no comprehension what it was she wanted from me, in one moment she was dressing up for dinner, in the next, she seemed to be pushing me into someone else's arms without compunction.

But the woman who she brought me over to seemed to already have her arms occupied by a rather portly man with glasses who looked vaguely familiar but whose name I could not place.

"Charles, I'd like you to meet my friend Simone, she said.

"A pleasure to meet you," I said, raising her hand to my lips for the briefest moment, aware of the eyes of the man on me the whole time. There was something about him that struck me as very intelligent, and I wondered what he did for a living. Simone was quite clearly Angelique's ballet friend, her slender neck, visible with all her long, honey-colored hair pulled back, and slight, lithe frame gave it away, along with the way she carried herself. One does not grow up in the arts and learn nothing! I wondered how she had come to marry- no, I saw no ring – be in the company of such an unattractive man.

"Likewise," she said, a smile on her lips. She really was a beautiful woman. For the first time since Rosalind had left, I felt a real rush of attraction to someone, and quickly lowered my eyes so as not to give myself away. Aristocracy might get away with a slight bending of social propriety from time to time, but stealing another man's woman right in front of him was unthinkable.

"And this is her escort- oh, I'm terribly bad at this," she said, flushing a deep red. "I am so sorry, but-"

"Think nothing of it," the man said in a deep voice that seemed to laugh even as he spoke. I extended my hand.

"Charles D'Chagny," I said, and waited for his response, but at first none came. His pale, fat face seemed to drain of color a bit. Simone glanced from me to her escort, and I wondered if I detected some sign of apprehension, but decided it was simply in the eyes of the man. Perhaps he perceived me as a threat to his lady? He stared at me a long moment before he came to his senses, plastered on that social smile I had seen moments before, and shook my hand.

"Gaston," he said. "Gaston Leroux."

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**A/N: Nothing like catching up to the future, is there? I had to come back and write this, I was driving home from rehearsal and the last piece clicked...trust me, it's going to pick up from here on!**


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Thank you for keeping up! Again, I apologize for the delay in between updates, but the show is picking up pace and I have almost no free time to write.**

**This is a short chapter, but only because the next one deserves it's own short vignette, too, I think. I didn't want to just line-break it. That should be up within two days, hopefully later tomorrow, so…check back!**

**Since my notes were apparently giving things away ahead of time (I stink at writing teasers, it's why I could never get into broadcast journalism), I'm just going to leave it here for now. smile**

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**Raoul**

The moment I got wind of that book, I knew there was going to be trouble. Then I read that book and knew that if I ever met Monsieur Leroux face to face, there was going to be more than trouble, there was likely to be a murder investigation.

There it was, in print, a re-telling of the worst time of our lives, with our names and everything! Even that strange daroga was mentioned, and I wondered from where Mr. Leroux got his information. Doubtless the retired managers were responsible for some of it, but the rest-

I found myself reading that manuscript with dread, wondering what else would be uncovered. I, for the first time, really considered Erik's personality, and found myself curious to the novel's accuracy.

It was 1911, and Charles was away for the first time, that is, out of the country. His most recent compositions had been very well-received in Italy, and the month the book was published, was finishing up a two-month tour of the country. I had been staying with Charles William, and, had I wondered at Erik's personality, might not have needed to look much farther than my grandson.

Opinionated where Charles was easy to reason with, crabby where Charles was always pleasant, equally smart but with a slight arrogance that only seemed to increase with age and knowledge…he was everything and nothing like the son I had raised.

A son who soon would have to know the truth.

I had written him a letter and told him that I needed to speak with him when he was at home, assuring him that his son was fine. In some ways, I had hoped it would hasten his trip home, but my assurances that things were fine seemed to placate him, and he said he would be home at the end of the month, as planned.

That was his mother, through and through. She had been so trusting. I had a feeling that was why this entire thing had happened in the first place.

And what if it had not? The world would not have known Charles, or his son, of whom it was becoming clear would also take the world by storm. We had thought he would become interested in music like his father, but as the years passed, while he was supremely talented when it came to the piano, his clear interests were in architecture. He had already won some local competitions by submitting some drawings, and I knew his tutors were planning on allowing him to submit actual bids on real projects in the coming months.

He wasn't even thirteen yet!

I wondered how this news would affect him. I couldn't think about my son yet. Charles William, I reasoned, probably would not care all that much. He hadn't even known his grandmother. How I wished Christine were still alive today! She would have known how to handle this. At the same time, I was so glad she was not around to see her gentle name marred on the pages of some second-rate writing project.

I wanted to sue the bastard, to take him for all he had for maligning my family, but as far as I could tell, what he had written had been the truth. So it was either drag my family back into the spotlight even more than they would be when more read the novel, admit the truth or call the man a liar, and it wouldn't be hard to reproduce many of the facts admitted on the pages.

Clearly, he had not done all of his work, as the novel included nothing of Christine or myself after that fateful night, though it did include the newspaper notice that had disquieted me when I saw it published. "Erik is dead," but of course we had known that for some time at that point.

And then…Charles came along, unbeknownst to him carrying on two family lines at once. Mine in name only, his father's in blood, and the remarkable boy I called my son had flourished as a result of the superior talent in his blood, a wonderful personality like his mother's and a strong hand that raised him.

And now he would know I had lied to him.

He had heard some rumors, of course, but most of the people who had been present for the worst of the opera house tragedy had either died or left the country, so the worst whispers he had heard was that his mother's affections had been divided between a composer and myself, and that I had lowered myself to marry a chorus girl. I could be honest enough about that. He knew of that part…at least, he knew his mother had been a singer and we had married, cutting her career short.

He had no idea why.

And he knew I knew of the architect who had built the opera house, after our trip there when he was younger. A friend of his mother's, dead many years, I had told him.

He had no comprehension how good of a friend.

Then again, neither had I, until Charles' birth, and the ensuing years. Christine and I had never spoken of it, an elephant in the room that went mostly ignored until her death, and was almost completely forgotten after, with Charles the only thing left to remind me of Christine. Then came Charles William.

I wondered how much I should tell him, and realized I had to tell him everything I knew, because even if the previous rumors had not turned him onto something, once he read the disturbingly accurate description of le fantome's face, he would have to figure it out.

Heaven help us, the entire city would know.

Before Charles returned home, I had to find out where Monsieur Leroux was getting his information, and for that, I had to find the man.

With Charles safely occupied by his tutor, I set out through Paris.


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's notes: Glad everyone is enjoying this! I again apologize for the slow update. I stink. Please, please, please keep reviewing! **

Disclaimer: I do not own Raoul or Gaston. Obviously, Charles and anyother, shall we say, incidental characters in this chapter. winkAnd, um, for those of you who understand libel laws, I'm claiming parody for the end of this chapter. You'll understand when you read. Enjoy!

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**Charles**

Italy is beautiful. So was the woman whose eye I caught as I finished playing. She was in the third row, with an older gentleman who, I found out later, was her father, with dark brown hair, a beautiful smile, and, best of all, she did not look like a skeleton! France is full of women whose only job, it seems, is to wear the latest fashions in the smallest size possible, and if it makes them look like they haven't eaten in at least a month, all the better!

It's been so long since I've been attracted to a woman, really, physically attracted, that the force at which it hit me made me almost miss a note! She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. I could imagine her hair freed of the pins that constrained it, flowing down her back- I restrained myself from some rather ungentlemanly thoughts and finished the concert.

Strange that after almost a decade of relative celibacy, she should be the one to break the pattern and make me want, yearn for, desire a woman again. You see, I had all but decided to ask Angelique to marry me when I returned to Paris. It wasn't just aboutCharles needing a mother, though that fact was becoming more and more obvious as he grew, but she was charming, easy to talk to, and intelligent, and I was convinced she and I could be happy together.

I had, evidently, forgotten what real attraction was.

I had also completely forgotten how to court a lady. I stumbled out into the foyer in a rush after the performance, as soon as I could get away from the crowds who wanted to speak with me, and to whom I had no desire to address at the present moment, and searched frantically for her. At the time, I had no concrete idea who the older gentleman was, but the resemblance between the two suggested family, and anyway, I could certainly find out!

And I did find her, that is, I literally ran into her while I was looking in the opposite direction.

"Mademoiselle, I am so sorry," I said, lapsing into French and then making an attempt to switch into Italian. Of course, my mind completely let go the language I had known since I was 15, and I'm sure I wound up commenting on the weather or something instead, but she smiled and we introduced ourselves without starting an international war, so I suppose things were off to a good start.

Her name was Josephine and I was in love. Her father's name was Alessandro, he worked at one of the top Italian banks, she was his only daughter and he was a widower, so she cared for him in his estate.

You might well wonder how I know all this, and the simple answer is that despite my blunderings, I managed to ask her to a late supper, and her father graciously found a cab and his own way home.

Did you know it can be utterly entrancing to watch someone eat? I wanted to buy her strawberries and champagne and just sit there for an hour or so, and really, I can't imagine ever having wanted to sit still and watch a woman do anything before! Even Charles' mother, who I thought I loved, would have bored me in this instance, but I found myself utterly captivated by Josephine.

I loved her name.

"So, Signor de Chagny, tell me a little of yourself," she said, and I could have sworn she was flirting with me. "I mean besides the famous pianist part, and the composing, and the aristocrat status, and all those other things that are in the paper. Tell me about you." Her smile was utterly intoxicating, and I found myself rising to her challenge, and dropped my voice a partial register.

"Well, there isn't much to tell, really," I said, and her reaction to the change in tone was astounding. How had I lived to be this old and not known the power my voice could hold? Forget piano, this was incredible! "I grew up in England and moved to Paris as a young man to start my career."

"Your accent is beautiful, despite an English upbringing," she said, taking a long sip of her wine.

"Thank you, I have a very particular father," I said, holding her eye for just a moment longer than necessary before turning my attention deliberately to my flatware, before glancing back up.

"I enjoy art," I offered, "And opera." She smiled, encouraging me.

"And I abhor French fashion," I said with a smirk that caused her to laugh and raise her hand to her lips in quite an amusing fashion.

"That's good," she said, "Because I don't own any." Oh, really? It was almost too easy, but so much fun, and it had been so long since anyone had made me feel this way.

"Well," I said, using my previous tone to great advantage again, "I would say that's well enough, as Italian couture seems to suit you beautifully."

Her face flushed an amazing pink, and then she caught sight of the clock outside.

"Eleven thirty!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's really quite late."

"I'm sorry," I said, somewhat flustered at her abrupt change in tone, "I didn't mean to keep you." I stood and waited for her.

"Oh, no, it isn't that," she said, perhaps stepping a little closer than necessary on her way to collect her coat. I helped her into it as she explained.

"Father has to take certain medications before bed, and I hate to leave that to the maids. I daresay they've got on by now, but I was surprised to see the time."

"Well, allow me to escort you home," I said. "I'll need a cab anyway to get back to the hotel."

"Thank you, Signor," she said.

I held out my hand to help her into the cab, and she allowed her touch to linger. The entire ride to her estate, all I could think of was how near she sat to me, and how even after this short time I longed to gather her in my arms, but of course, proper breeding allowed me to do no more than admire the moonlight on her hair.

At her house, I helped her from the cab and stood for a moment, our eyes meeting and holding a gaze that seemed to speak volumes, but in a language I did not understand.

"It was lovely meeting you," I said softly, edging a bit closer to her and brushing a tangle of hair from her face.

"And you," she responded. Every urge inside of me screamed out to kiss her, but I restrained myself.

"Perhaps you would be available for lunch tomorrow? I have some time before a performance."

"I would like nothing better," she said, and I raised her hand to my lips, kissed it lightly, and watched as she entered the house. A thin ribbon of light reached out to me in the dimly lit street, enveloped her, and left me again in the dark as the heavy door shut her inside.

**Raoul**

If I thought finding that former journalist would have been an issue, I was proved wrong the instant I asked someone on the street where I might find M. Leroux. I was directed to a nearby pub by a street urchin who seemed to know everything, at least, once he was tipped accordingly, and sure enough, there he was, sitting alone at the bar with a scotch and water.

"M. Leroux?" I asked, though it hardly seemed necessary. He matched the physical description I had gotten exactly.

"Yes?" he asked, in a tone that suggested clearly this was not his first drink of the evening. He was younger than me, but not by much, and his condition played heavily in my favor. When I suggested we step outside for a moment, he complied without question, tottering uncertainly as he rose from his chair, allowing his heavy gait to balance as he accompanied me to the deserted courtyard. It was dark, and I allowed myself the privilege of standing very close to him.

"What's this about?" he asked uncertainly.

"You do realize I could kill you right now and no one would miss you?" He snorted.

"My God, man, you've no idea who I am, do you?" he asked.

"Oh, I know who you are. And now, you should know who I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny."

At the mention of my name, his flabby face went white and he attempted to step backwards, an unfortunate movement that backed him against a brick wall. We were completely in shadow now, and no one could see us from either restaurant or street.

"I-"

"No, silence," I commanded in a tone I wasn't sure I'd ever used before. _Funny, Erik, you've brought me to this point and I rather think you'd be proud of me!_ "I've read your most recent bit of literature and you've got some explaining to do!" At the sound of his work, he seemed to rally a bit.

"It's all true," he sneered at me, "All of it, and you'd have a hard time proving I'd done anything wrong by reporting what I can back up!"

"And you'd have a hard time profiting off of it in an unfortunate condition," I growled. "But you're not worth my time. The papers were libelous enough towards me once, and you've gone and done it again. What I want to know is how."

"How?"

"Is it so hard a question? You could have gone back and read the papers, for all I know you wrote some of the damned stories, but I want to know where you got the details. Because I didn't tell you, the man himself is dead, and that leaves only one person, and I doubt he'd tell you, but somehow, he's in that book and you've got approximately two minutes to tell me how you know what you know."

"Or else what?"

I laughed, drew myself up to full height and stared him down.

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you really think I'm going to threaten you?" My tone itself bared every implication I could think of, but I refused to give him anything concrete to take me to jail over. I took a step closer.

Had he been sober, I've no doubt he would have pushed me aside and left me there, alone and without information, but he was not, and evidently the thought that an aristocrat who'd never been in a real fight in his life could flatten him was a plausible fate. And he didn't even know I was armed! I wasn't proud of it, but I'd tried to shoot my demons down once before and tonight, I was angry enough to do it again. It was only the thought of my son and grandson that kept me from taking his life. I was that angry. I didn't care about me. My name was slandered enough when I married Christine, but I loved her and couldn't bear the thought of it all over again.

_Every time, the fact she didn't love you back brings you to this,_ the voice sneered. It made me angrier, and his silence was maddening. I stepped forward again, our bodies almost touching, anger radiating off of me. If I was bluffing before, I wasn't now.

"All right," he said. "All right. But at least let's go into the bar where it's warmer. You can buy me a drink," he said impetuously, "And I'll tell you what I know."

"How do I know you won't lie to me?"

"Now I might just start to think you're an idiot if you talk like that," he snapped in a moment of sobriety. "You'll know if I'm lying, won't you? You were there in that pit."


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Thank you so much, loyal readers, for putting up with the lag in between updates. My show is OVER April 9, and I will be much better about it then. A few little Easter eggs in this chapter...vague character traits taken from characters on a favorite former TV show…

Please review…I realize "Leroux" (and no, I don't own him, or Erik, or Raoul, or Christine, or, or, or… but I DO own Charles William as he is presented…) talks far too well for a drunk man, but there's a little artistic liberty there, so don't flame that, okay?

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**Raoul**

The inside of the pub was disgusting. I hadn't noticed the smell before, so intent was I on finding M. Leroux, and the table we sat down to was filthy. I resisted the urge to wipe the seat with my handkerchief before sitting, and tried very hard not to think about it when I felt something wet soaking through the seat of my trousers. M. Leroux sat there blearily, and I wondered how credible, or co-operative, he was really going to be, but I had not come this far to question the little details.

The little details. There's a nice, tidy way of saying I was in hell!

I asked him what he was drinking, he said scotch and water, so I ordered two, though I disliked drinking and hated scotch. I had gone through a nasty bout where I drank too much wine after Christine's death, escaping into a world where the edges were softened and it didn't seem to matter as much, but I hated substance abuse, saw it as a sign of weakness, and managed to haul myself out of it before any real damage was done.

Well, I was going back on it tonight.

Coldly, calculatingly, I gazed at the man before me. He avoided my stare.

"Well?" he demanded. "You've got me in here, but I'm not staying for long." He was wrong on that, now that he was seated and settled in with a drink, I doubted he would be able to get up of his own volition after another round or so, and I intended to keep him very well plied. I might have lacked Erik's fine vocal skills and may be a mere novice in the art of general manipulation, but words flow easily as long as the liquor does (my brother Philippe still doesn't know he confided in me his deep attraction to his wife's younger sister the night his youngest daughter was born, but to be fair, his wife is a terribly frail, cold woman and I'm amazed they had children together at all), and I intended to have as long a conversation as was necessary.

I removed a notepad, which he eyed warily but did not mention.

"Well what?" I replied coldly. "I want to know where you got your information. You start there, leave nothing out, and I'll just jump in when the spirit moves me, is that all right?"

He sighed.

"Well, I read the papers," he began. "I think I already told you that. But it was all speculation to that point, no one really knew what had happened, except the primary characters, all of whom had cleverly disappeared or were avoiding the press."

I glared at him, but let the remark slide. He didn't need to know that while everyone thought we were avoiding the press, Christine was all but avoiding me, and everyone else, and my brother was busy making my life a living hell.

"So that was that, and I put it out of my mind. A few years later, I had the opportunity to tour the opera house, which included the cellars. I think they were trying to drum up some publicity, maybe were hoping for a little story on some of the new operas coming, but they let me have a look around on my own. I remembered that story, and went in search of something, anything, that might give me a little more information. Excuse me," he paused, signaling for another drink, downing it in record time, and turning, a little more unsteadily, back to the task at hand.

"I didn't find much," he said. "I didn't have time then to get into the walls- his house, I'm sure you know- but I arranged to come back another time. I brought an architect with me, and said I wanted him to explain some of the structural history for a piece I was working on. He was an old friend, and stood guard while I poked around, eventually finding my way into that insane mirrored room, and from there, into what I can only guess was a living area."

"Ransacked," I guessed, the first words I had uttered in several minutes.

"Quite," he agreed in what could almost be considered a friendly tone. "I don't know everything that went on in that house, but I could guess- sheet music everywhere! Bits of candles and pipe organs strewn about, rose petals, scientific equipment- the man must have been a genius!"

I sighed. I didn't need a homily to Erik any more than I needed the attention of a very obvious barmaid, who kept offering to bring me bread, another drink- when mine was still quite unfinished! – something to eat. She must have shown up three times in five minutes!

"Again, my time was cut short, this time by my friend calling to me, as he heard opera personnel coming down the stairs. I had time to-" he shifted his gaze, "borrow a few items for more reflection."

"Items?" I asked warily. If he had anything of Christine's-!

"A few pieces of sheet music," he said, "and what I thought was an accounts ledger. But it was a journal."

"A journal."

"Erik's, evidently, though it stopped approximately two weeks before the final disaster. But it pointed me in the direction of Nadir Khan, and Meg Giry."

"They talked to you?" Again, those shifty eyes. I hated reporters, I decided, and two-bit novelists, and drinkers, and that barmaid, who was becoming less and less subtle in her glances, and this filthy pub, and reporters, and most of all, scotch! I pushed the drink aside, took the barmaid up on her offer of a glass of wine, and waited for his answer.

"Well…no. Not exactly. Nadir Khan was rather ill at that time and insisted I leave the premises. But one of his servants, who evidently was a rather good hand at eavesdropping and snooping-" _Oh, Erik, you fathered other children?_ _Quite the ladies' man! _Where had that come from? "and filled me in on some of the more salient points. And I was able to confirm bits and pieces from Meg Giry's daughter- very pretty girl – and other documents."

"Such as?"

"Surely you know Nadir Khan has passed away."

I had known that. The news had come to me approximately two years ago, and I had heard rumors he had been ill for some time.

"I attended his estate sale and managed to purchase a roll top desk that contained several old books the family had overlooked. Including more accounts of his friendship with your phantom, and his continuing friendship with Madame Giry- that would be Meg's mother, not Meg." That was a surprise. I had no idea the two had kept in contact, but then, Christine and Meg had drifted apart when we moved to London, and I had no idea what any of them were up to anymore.

"There were some pages missing, though," he said. "I had more than enough to write my book- which I thank you for reading," he slurred, and I knew this was coming to a close, at least for tonight, "but there were a few months where there were no entries at all. At least, not in that book."

"What dates?" I asked, though I knew. I had only one guess, and I was correct: the time after Christine's last visit to Erik. Nadir would not have allowed those pages to be permanently memorialized, if he wrote anything, he would have destroyed it, if only out of a sense of propriety to his friend.

"You don't look surprised," he said.

"Why should I be?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"Oh, don't pull that aristocratic political garbage on me," he said. "I might not have your connections or clout, but I'm not an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stop sounding so threatening," he said. "I'll tell you what you want to know and I'll even show you the bloody documents if you so wish, but you're not going to cow me or threaten a lawsuit or anything else."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I've given you more than you know."

"What?"

"I didn't describe him like he was. You know that. I changed it." He had, too. There had been a description, but it was off: yellow skin instead of the pale, but white, hue Erik had had, eyes so deep you could hardly see them, instead of the sunken but very visible yellow-gold Erik had glared at me through so many times, a balding man where Erik was not, and other differences. It was close, though.

"So?"

"And I didn't end the story the right way, either."

"Come again?"

" 'Erik is dead,'" he quoted. "And he is. For so many years now. But your grandson speaks otherwise against a dead lineage."

Suddenly, the room was very hot. It was something I had not considered as much as I should have- that it would not just be my son who realized the truth.

"And if you're lucky," he concluded, getting up with more skill than I had anticipated he would have, and dropping a calling card at my place, "the fine citizens of Paris won't make the connection, either."

Somehow, I very much doubted that.

Very much doubted it indeed.

We should have stayed in London.


	12. Chapter 11

**Yes, I'm back. Sorry for making you wait so long, I promise to be better!**

**Standard disclaimers apply. I hated writing this chapter, but it had to happen.**

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I have no idea how I came to be this age almost entirely ignorant about the world. No, that's inaccurate. I know a lot about the world. I know how things work and why things were made and so much about history that I could write my own text. I can speak five languages fluently and my tutors are running out of things to teach me.

I know exactly how the world works, but I didn't for a long time and I still can't figure out why.

I'm not even ten years old yet, but I can't believe it's taken me this long to understand that people outside these walls hate me. I know I'm ugly, I've known it since I was old enough to pick locks and find a mirror, but my father and grandfather were rather adept and making sure I didn't dwell on it too much.

Even when people would shy away from me, and I knew it was because I didn't have the perfect, cherubic faces like their children, even then I didn't realize that they hated me so. Now I understand.

Grandfather has been acting quite strange for several days now. He hardly ever comes out of his room, and Father won't be home for another week at least. His last letter said that he had found an old mandolin that he wanted me to have, and I wanted to find a book about them, because I don't know much about the makeup of them. And we were out of cheese, and the cook wasn't in, so I went out to the marketplace.

I know I'm not supposed to, I know Father said it makes Grandfather nervous to have me running off and disappearing, the same way my stupid magic tricks used to make him pale when Father would laugh and clap, but Grandfather has been so distant lately that I didn't want to ask him to go out, and I didn't feel like hearing him tell me 'no,' so I just went. It seemed a lot easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

The shops were just as busy as can be expected during the early evening on a Friday. I got to the book seller and asked the man behind the counter about mandolins. The bookseller knows me, because Father and I go in just about every Saturday and spend a lot of money. I don't think he likes me, because he doesn't seem to like children in general, but he tolerates me because he needs to eat. I've found that many people seem to do things because they need to eat or otherwise save themselves.

He eyed me suspiciously, because I had never been in without Father before, but quickly found an appropriate book and sold it to me. I noticed some people whispering, but I ignored them.

"Is there anything new?" I asked. It was a standard question. I was always looking for new things to read.

"Nothing you'd be interested in," he said. "No historical texts, nothing about architecture or music."

"Thank you," I said, and left.

The market was much worse. It started when a boy about my age came up to me and tried to grab my book away from me. I glared at him and told him to step off.

"That's a pretty nice bit of authority coming from a monster!" he snapped. I took a step backwards.

"What?" I asked.

"A monster! Why else you got that mask on? Let's have a look!" He moved toward me, and I dodged him, but not quickly enough, and my mask fell to the ground. By this time, a small crowd had formed and I could not get to it.

I was angry. I have never felt so angry in my entire life. I could have killed him, then, and not even cared, I could have killed all of them, the jeering boys and shrieking girls and their stupid, encouraging parents. They called me 'monster' and pointed at my face. They called me 'ugly.'

I managed to win the fight, and I have no idea how. The boy, whose name I still do not know, ran home with a bloody face and clutching his arm. I was largely uninjured, at least physically.

I wish I had known some kind of sorcerer's magic, some spell or words that could have made them all disappear, forget what they had seen.

One woman stood there, looking at my face for a horrified second while I frantically affixed my mask in place. I recognized her as a woman who attended the same Mass as my family. She had a daughter a year younger than I, a little girl named Charlotte with brown hair who wasn't allowed to play with me. She looked at my face and something came over her own, a look I didn't understand.

The next thing I knew, the market owner was out of the store and grabbing me by the arm, telling me that if I was going to come around and start trouble and steal things, then I should just get out now before he called the authorities, and wouldn't they know what to do with a freak like me. I ran all the way home.

Grandfather has remained in his room, and as far as I know, is completely unaware of my transgression at all. I wanted it to stay that way, I didn't want him to see me cry. A boy my age shouldn't cry, it was for babies.

I can sing and play seven instruments, and I could probably perform a Mass on my own, except that the priest told me that was blasphemy. Only a priest can perform a Mass. And I'll never be a priest. I didn't want to, but I know now that I couldn't.

I'm fairly certain that it doesn't matter how much I know or how beautiful my voice is, because now they know what's behind the mask, and no one will want to look at me long enough to find out what wonderful things I know.


	13. Chapter 12

**Author's note: Thank you to my loyal reviewers- it makes me unreasonably happy to see your comments and suggestions. I love feedback.**

**I want to see this resolved as much as you do, but unfortunately, there's a little housekeeping to be done first. Charles has to return home, Raoul has to come out of his room, and little Charles- well, little Charles should probably stay out of the market for awhile.**

**The standard disclaimer applies, although I do certainly own the character of Charles William, and would appreciate you not stealing him. Thanks!**

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I closed the last trunk and sat on the edge of my bed with a sigh before summoning a porter to bring my things to the lobby in preparation for my departure. Walking over to the window, I watched for the signs of the carriage that I had come to know so well over the past two weeks.

I missed my son and father very much, but I hated to leave Italy. I had come to love the country that seemed so alive compared to Paris, and the fact that my work was very well-received here didn't do much to put a damper on my affections. And of course, there was Josephine. I had come to love her more than I thought possible in this short time, in a way I had not known existed.

Of course I had loved Rosalind, in the only way I knew how, but it paled in comparison to the tremendous hold Josephine had on my entire being.

The dinner after that concert, which seemed like years ago, had not been the last time Josephine and I saw one another. She attended another two concerts, and there was no shortage of dinners, lunches, shopping and excursions, to the point where, after one particularly well-connected party, the society pages were speculating on our relationship.

They weren't the only ones speculating. Josephine was lovely, engaging and intelligent, and beautiful to behold. It was no secret she was just as attracted to me, and I longed to be with her every moment. I wanted to marry her, have children with her, never let her out of my sight, but I had no idea how to go about any of it. Every time I attempted to bring the conversation into an arena that remotely approached some sort of permanency, or even commitment, she would shy away from the subject. Even the voice that seemed to captivate her so held no sway in this regard, and I found myself more and more frustrated as the time of my departure grew nearer. I could not prolong things any more, I had received another letter from Father imploring me to come home – dear Lord, what has my son been doing to him? He sounded positively haunted in the last correspondence- and even more so, these weeks away were too many from my son.

I missed him, but more than that, I needed to get home. I needed to remember my responsibilities.

It's so dangerous, when you find yourself in a situation you did not expect, to find yourself enamored with whatever distraction comes your way. In this case, Italy reminded me of the life I could have had, had I not met Rosalind. I don't regret my son, in so many ways, he's one of the best things in my life, but I'd be a fool to try and ignore the kind of ramifications his condition had on all of us. I found myself fantasizing about a life where he – we - would not be so stared at, a life where my father's name did not draw surprised faces. I saw the looks in public, but I ignored them for both our sakes.

The thing I'm coming to realize is that ignoring it is like leaving a piece of fruit hidden behind a jar- you can pretend it's invisible, a non-reality, only so long.

Four nights ago, I walked Josephine home from the open-air café that had become a favorite spot. The night was quite pleasant, and we detoured through a park in the last lights of the evening.

"This is one of my favorite places," she said.

"It's beautiful," I agreed, taking hold of her hand. We had started including more physical contact at that point, though it had not gone past a kiss on the hand at the end of the evening, an arm about the shoulder or my hand caressing her beautiful face. I longed for more, still, but felt an urgency to make this perfect, give her no reason to fear me or deny my presence.

"When I was a little girl," she said softly, coming to a stop and standing close to me, the setting sun giving her hair red tones, "I used to come out here just to watch the sun set. I thought it was the most beautiful place on earth."

"Your father let you out alone?" I asked, surprised. I had yet to have a full conversation with Josephine's father, knew he would not have likely permitted that. Josephine's mother had died in childbirth, and the doctors considered it a miracle Josephine survived. Alessandro, who was fifteen years older than his wife, Sophia, was fiercely protective of his only daughter, concerned if he lost her, he should lose everything.

"Of course not," she laughed. "But I learned how to slip past his eye."

"You are so beautiful," I said, aware it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand, but unable to resist telling her.

"Thank you," she said, resting one hand on my chest. "When I'm with you, I almost believe it."

"In all cases, beauty is determined by the character of the subject," I said, doing my best to sound diplomatic. "In your case, my dear, it would be difficult to determine which, outer or inner, is more stunning." I was not lying, not even using hyperbole to keep that hand on my chest for another moment. She truly was the most beautiful woman I had ever known.

Two nights before, I had told her of Charles. She had heard gossip, of course, because an entertainer of even small renown does not come to town without some closet skeletons tagging along, but instead of being repulsed- and I did not spare her – her eyes held a profound sadness.

"That poor little boy," she had said, and the compassion in her voice was enough to confirm every feeling I felt. I loved this woman. She was wonderful company, and she would not be afraid of my son. I had told her he would most likely enjoy meeting her – though I did not say he would probably equally love trying to slip a caterpillar onto her skirt or try to make her believe the clock was speaking (Father almost passed out at that one!) – and she looked down before she said that we would be late for our next engagement.

Standing in the park, I wanted to broach the topic again, but contented myself with looking at her radiant smile.

"You truly do have a way with words," she said.

"That's funny, most people seem to think I'm pretty good with a piano," I said. "You know, for parties and things."

"Then they clearly haven't heard you speak," she said, refusing to let me look away (as if I had any desire!), "because if they had, they wouldn't care if you had a complete inability to read music."

Have I mentioned I absolutely adore what my voice does to this woman?

"Well, as luck would have it, I can both play a Christmas carol and hold conversation," I said, allowing the register of my voice to become soft, but quite strong.

"A man of many talents," she said softly, drawing herself into my arms.

I have no idea who initiated that first kiss, but it was enough to convince me that I never, ever wanted to be without it again.

Now, watching for her carriage, I know what I have to do. I cannot, will not, live my life without her. Saying it to myself, if sounds so melodramatic, so much like a schoolboy crush, the kind I was seemingly immune to for so long. It isn't.

Finally, I see her stepping out of a cab, and I rush to meet her.

"My dear," I said, reaching in to kiss her cheek.

"I can't believe you're leaving today," she said softly.

"I don't want to," I said, "but I must get home to my father and son. He's probably driven him to the madhouse by now!" She laughed, and I took it as a hopeful sign.

"I wish there was some way I could magically transport them here," I said, as we began to walk down the street. I had a little time before I had to meet my transport, and I wanted to spend every moment with her. "It would really make this whole goodbye business much less of an issue."

"Yes, but the freight companies would go out of business, and we can't have that," she said.

"Yes, but then I wouldn't have to leave you," I said. "Truly, you have made this so wonderful."

"Your company was equally nice," she replied, but with an emotion that belied her formal words.

"Josephine," I said, stopping by a bench under some trees. "You don't understand. You've been a breath of fresh air, a light I didn't know I needed. How can you not even realize you're in the dark until someone lights a lamp?"

"Stop," she said, turning away, and I could hear sadness in her voice. "You must not go on."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't do this, Charles, I can't hear these things and say goodbye to you! You tell me of your life, your family, all you do in Paris, and I know we've had a wonderful time these past weeks, but in a few hours you'll be gone. I can't pretend I don't care, but I can't allow myself to be hurt again."

"Hurt? How have I hurt you?"

"You've done nothing, you're wonderful, and can't you understand that's what makes this so hard? But I loved once already, and thought he loved me, too. He was a cellist. He spent six months here studying something or other, told me he loved me…but in the end it was back home to his wife. His wife! He didn't even tell me he had a wife!"

"You didn't even tell me about him," I said, completely taken aback. Not that I expected her to be some vestal virgin- even if I had barely touched her – but the idea of her loving another man, giving her heart to someone the way I longer her to bestow it upon me, was shattering.

"I didn't want it to ruin things," she said. I took her in my arms. The past didn't matter, I told myself. It didn't. She was here now, and I loved her.

"Well, now you've told me, and it hasn't," I said, stroking her hair. "And I don't have any wife. I have an amazing son, and once I had a wife, but what I told you was true- she's no longer in my life."

"Stop," she begged. "You're still leaving, this doesn't change anything."

"Then leave with me," I said, reaching in my coat for the ring I had procured the day after our first kiss. "Marry me. Be my wife and I will spend my days making you happy."

"I love you, Charles," she said. "But I cannot go to Paris. I cannot leave Father, and he will not go."

"Please, don't say no," I said, still holding the ring. "Please. I will find a way, if I have to pack up my estate and move here, I will. I don't care. But please- don't say no."

"I cannot say yes," she said. "You have commitments in Paris, I have my life here. I have to take care of my father, there's no one else to do it. I'm all he has, and I love him."

"I know," I said. "I'm not asking you to leave him. But if I can find a way to make this work, will you marry me then? If I move to Italy, bring my family here, will you join us?" She smiled and took the ring from my hand, slipping it onto her right ring finger.

"I will wait for you," she promised.


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Here's two chapters as way of apology. I have no excuses, but I'm sorry. **

**I'm glad so many of you are enjoying the story, and I am also grateful to the person who has provided me with some healthy criticism. I'm going to get more descriptive, which is good because it will flesh out the characters for a bit, bad for those of you who are looking for a fast and painless resolution- it's going to be awhile before this ends. I'm not even promising you a happy ending, or an angst-ridden conclusion.**

**And yes, I am aware that Charles William is looking a lot like Erik, and while I don't mind that, because I enjoy writing how Erik could have turned out, I'm not interested in re-writing Kay, so I'm going to be working on that.**

* * *

Raoul

It's a quarter to five in the afternoon. Charles should be coming home within the hour. I need more time, and I haven't got it.

For all my money, wealth, popularity, I've got the worst sense of timing of anyone I know. Years too early for Christine, then, finally reunited, months too late. I refused to let her go back, broke that promise and let her go too early, and arrived hours too late, and then married her a month too late and lost her too early.

And even then I was foolish enough to believe it was all over, and then of course found out that the truth is quite the opposite, and I have no idea what to do now.

I'm afraid of the boy, though I love him. He's too quick, too smart, and, of late, too angry. I thought that if Charles did his best, if I helped him, that perhaps my grandson would be saved the fate his grandfather suffered, but I'm starting to see that it's far less nurture and a lot more of nature's cruel hand, pushed along by society to a terrifying apex. We gave him a few good years, but how much time do we have left? He already knows too much.

Once again, I find myself wondering about Erik's parents. Christine told me little about them, and I don't think she knew much herself. I know his father died before he was born, and I've seen his picture. I used to have that likeness, I picked it up off the floor and pocketed it for some reason, but I have no idea where it is now.

I don't need it, of course. If I ever needed a lesson in the genealogy of the phantom of the opera, as it were, I just need to look at my beautiful son and know why Erik's mother was so infatuated.

I know Erik did not get along with his mother, and while my understanding of the situation ends there, I can certainly sympathize with her plight- and Charles William is well-behaved, for the most part! I have no idea what forces shaped young Erik's life, but I'm doing my best to blindly make sure they're not repeated.

I promised Christine I would take her back before our wedding, and then I broke that promise, and the result of my foolishness has made an indelible impression on the rest of my years. I love Charles, of course, but I have to wonder how it all might have been different.

God forgive me, I have to wonder if somehow, his very existence is what killed his mother. It's foolishness, I know, but she was so healthy, if fragile, before, and after that night, nothing was ever the same.

We rarely spoke of it. She never came out and told me that Charles was Erik's son, but came close enough to it one night that I understood her intentions.

It was a warm evening, and the windows were open. Christine was in bed, which was usual for her at that time. It would be a matter of weeks before she died, but I didn't know that then. I was sitting beside her, holding her hand, when Charles came up in discussion.

_"Did you get a chance to hear his new song?" I asked her. _I never really brought up Charles' accomplishments to her, as it toed the line between fact and the denial I had manufactured for myself, a thin façade that cracked often enough on its own, without any sort of intervention on my part.

_"No," she said tiredly. _Her voice had remained beautiful, but it had been more than a year since she had sung anything. She was too weak, and though it was still pretty, her voice was nothing compared to its splendor under Erik's tutelage. It frustrated her to no end, which had physically debilitating side effects, and so eventually, she stopped asking Charles to play the piano for her. He didn't understand, of course. He thought she had a beautiful voice. She did, but he had nothing with which to compare it. However, her speaking voice was still perfectly modulated, feminine and pleasant to the ear, and I loved to hear her speak.

_"Well, tomorrow, if you're up to it, you must come down and listen," I said. "He wrote it for you." _Indeed he had, describing it as a birthday present, though her birthday was months away. I think he understood more than we told him about the situation, and knew that the odds were she would not be around to celebrate another such anniversary. The song was hauntingly beautiful.

_"I'd like that," she said. After a moment, she looked at me with intensity in her eyes I rarely saw anymore. "He's really very talented, isn't he?"_

_"Well, of course," I said, hoping to keep the conversation on an even keel. "His mother gave it to him honestly enough."_

_"Yes, that's what he says," she murmured. "He loves you, you know."_

_"Yes," I said. "He loves you, too."_

_"But he's afraid of me," Christine said,_ and probably rightly so. Charles loved his mother, but she doted on him so fiercely, knowing he was the only child she'd ever have, that by necessity he drew closer to me. _"He loves you- you are his father. You're the only father he'll ever know. Promise me that you'll take care of him."_

_"My dear," I said, not missing the subtle suggestion that there were other, unknown fathers, "The boy is going to be an adult before we even know it. He's growing up so well."_

_"Promise me that you'll take care of him," she demanded. "Promise me that when I die, he won't be any more upset than he has to be."_

I promised her that, and understood that she was asking me to keep my suspicious to myself. I looked at her pale, gaunt frame that seemed to be lost within the bed linens and saw the fear and pain in her eyes. She knew what had happened, and she knew what it was doing to me. Love of her life or not, she knew me. And I'd like to think she came to love me. I know I never stopped loving her, even when I knew, even when I understood that this ghost would have more of her than I could.

But he didn't have what he really wanted, I consoled myself, staring at the ceiling and counting the minutes until my son would walk through the door, full of news about his trip, and until the time when I would have to all but shatter his memories. Erik may have had her heart, he may have had her body, and he may have had her child. But I was the one who got to spend years by her side, caring for her, loving her. I knew it was all he'd wanted. It was almost all I'd wanted, and I got to have that. For that reason, I could never be angry with her.

Christine understood what I was going through and knew what it could do to Charles. And like she always had done, she tried to keep everyone happy, even when the two sides were so jarringly in conflict that someone always wound up hurt. I know she didn't do it on purpose, but that woman, that frail bird of a woman, had managed to put a new spin on my life, and years after he death, was still managing to help twist the plot.

When she died, I found her journal, and one day, when the pain wasn't quite so sharp and I had a few hours to myself, I read it. It was one she started just after Charles turned five years old, and while so much of it is about the boy wonder that was – is – our (her) son, the truth was revealed quite plainly.

And, of course, I have her old journal, the one she started just before I met her that she rather abruptly stopped keeping just before our wedding. I've got all the background story, all I need to tell the true tale of Le Fantome, and I'm terrified.

I love Charles. I love Christine. But I can't help but think that if I had only kept my promise to her, only gone back with her that day, instead of sending her alone, I'd be living out my days in abject bliss, perhaps with my wife at my side, perhaps with a passel of children. Who knows what not having his child would have done for her?

Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't forgotten her for so many years in the first place?

All I know is the one time I broke a promise to the woman I loved, the ramifications spread over so many years that I still can't see their end.

I don't know what's going to happen when I break another one today, but I hope she can forgive me.


	15. Chapter 14

**Hi everyone: If you're here for the update, you need to go back one chapter, as I uploaded two as a way of penance for being such a slacker writer.**

**No notes on this chapter because they've been included in the one previous. Enjoy!**

* * *

Charles

It's very dark when your entire life collapses. I'm reaching out and trying so hard to grasp onto something familiar, and it's all fallen to pieces.

I got home from Italy already feeling a bit down at leaving Josephine, but excited to see Father and Charles. I felt like I had been away from home for an eternity, which, if I am honest with myself, was not entirely unpleasant, but all the same, there's something so comforting in the familiar.

I planned to go in the house, eat supper, play with my son and have a drink with Father. Then, after the stories had been shared and everyone was content, I would tell Father of my plans to move to Italy.

I knew it wasn't going to thrill him, but it wasn't as if he loved Paris anyway, if he wanted to come along, I'd love to have him. If he wanted to stay, he could. Perhaps it sounds cavalier, to speak of abandoning your father like that, but Father and I had always had a casual relationship like that: Friendly, loving, but not dependent on the other for affirmation. I also knew that the idea of him not wanting to come along was fairly out of the question, if not for me, for Charles. He was so good with the boy, though I knew Charles exasperated him and enjoyed testing his limits. And Father hadn't made a lot of friends in Paris. He knew a lot of people, even at his age, he was still known (and somewhat active) in the social circles, but they weren't his friends. He was always very sure to point out the difference.

I was worried about Charles, but only slightly. His interest in structure was not fading as he aged, though he seemed less interested in playing the piano constantly (a fact I chalk up to his age and the truth that with a father who plays all the time, a child is not so inclined to follow in his footsteps. Look how interested in finance and business I turned out to be!), and I thought Italy might be a good place for him to study.

I know, his face, but you have to understand that I cease to notice it, at least when we're in private quarters, and the public reaction is something that seems to lessen when you're away from it. I found Italy much friendlier than Paris, anyway, and assumed the change would do us all some good.

I had not even thought of Angelique until I saw her at the train station. Is that bad? That the woman I was intending on marrying until I met Josephine managed to stay out of my thoughts entirely for the past weeks in light of my new love? Had I even loved Angelique?

The answer, of course, was no, and I am ashamed to admit that I was going to marry her for companionship and to provide my son with a mother. For her many good qualities, I loved her, but I was not, and had never been, in love with the woman, and just thinking of how I was planning on using her makes me feel even more terrible.

She was at the train station waiting for her sister, who was coming in for a visit, but her face lit up when she saw me, and again, I felt terrible.

"Charles!" she said, rushing over. I could tell she wanted to embrace me, but she stopped herself short and instead stood there before me, an awkward moment passing between us before I took her hand, kissed it gently, and asked how she had been.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said sweetly. Angelique was always fine. She was good, and sweet, and never gossiped or made comments that were out of line. She was beautiful, and intelligent, entirely feminine and entirely a lady, and it wasn't enough for me. Unfortunately, I think our years of friendship had made her think otherwise. I never thought she was in love with me, but the strange, hard-to-manage moments that popped up between us every now and again told me that on some level, this was not a normal friendship.

"But enough about me," she said. "I'm just waiting for Elisabeth to come in. She's going to be staying with me for a week or so, and I thought I'd come and meet her since she doesn't know the city that well." Angelique was not a native Parisian, growing up in a small village but moving here as a younger woman several years ago. "How was your trip? The papers were full of things about your concerts! Everyone is so looking forward to you playing again here!"

"It was wonderful," I said. "Italy, especially Milan, makes Paris look positively arcane!" It wasn't true, necessarily, but it made her smile even more broadly.

"Well," she said prettily, and was that a hint of flirtation in her voice? Oh, stop it, Charles, you've been in Italy too long, you think everyone's a romantic! "I hope it hasn't made you want to forget about everyone here who thinks so highly of you, even if it is a little backwater." She said it without a hint of malice, so I pushed my guilt aside and laughed along with her.

Marriage material or not, she was a friend, and I would miss her.

Fortunately, I was spared an answer, as the arrival of Elisabeth was imminent. We bid farewell with the promise to meet for lunch after Elisabeth departed (and I noticed that, unlike in the past, she did not make mention of how pretty Elisabeth was, nor how well-suited we just might be, if only she lived a little closer), and I caught a cab home.

* * *

It was getting dark when I closed the front door behind me and allowed the maid to take my cloak. I hugged Charles tightly, and noticed that he returned my embrace just as strongly. He was growing up, I noted. Even in these past weeks, he seemed to have aged, and I realized just how eager children are to leave us with nothing but memories of their younger years.

Father seemed distracted, but pleasant, and we had a nice, if late, supper, before Charles went off to his room and Father and I retired to the parlor for a brandy.

It was in the firelight that I noticed just how tense he really looked, how conflicted, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it. Instead, he quizzed me on my trip, asking more questions than he ever had about what music I played, which songs I selected, what was I working on now? We talked for probably an hour and a half about little things like that. School. Music. Women. Do I remember that song I wrote for my mother?

I stopped short at that question. I remembered the song vividly. I spent weeks perfecting it, making sure every note and every rest, every chord and key change, was in its rightful place. I was still young, but it was very good, and I labored to make it just right.

It was a song that expressed my love for her, a song that through piano alone showcased her ability to be both kind and intense, sensitive and shrewd. It started out very quickly, because that's how I remembered her when I was very small, always running from one thing to the next, desperately trying to do whatever she thought would make me the smallest bit happier, just that much more content. The middle was a bit more hesitant, which showed my own resistance to letting her into certain parts of my life. The end was slow, soft, and played so gently the notes barely seemed to connect to each other, but that was how it was, then.

To hear it and not know the story, it was simply a beautiful piece of music, to know and understand everything, which I still think is something I, and only she, could ever have done, made it a masterpiece.

She never got to hear it played. The day I wrote it was one day after the last day she ever ventured from her room. She was too weak, but I like to think that at least she heard parts of it drifting up the stairs.

I was surprised Father remembered it. Since then, I had written hundreds of pieces, some pedestrian, some that, at least technically, put "her" piece to shame, but none as wrought with emotion or as personal. My song to Rosalind was nothing more than a pretty, trite composition. My song to my son has not been written, because it seems a silly thing to do now, when he's just as good as I am.

I told him I remembered the song, and he seemed to be about to say something when the door burst open and a policeman, followed closely by the maid who, at that hour, would have been on her way out the door.

"Monsieur de Chagny?" he asked.

"Yes," my father and I both said, and I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. It was my house, but he lived here almost as much as, and these last weeks more than, I. The officer turned to address me.

"Monsieur, I am sorry to inform you, but there's been an accident."

I stared at him, confused. An accident? Involving whom? I asked him as much.

"It would appear your son was causing a commotion in the marketplace," he said reluctantly. "Some boys came over and started to give him trouble, and he fought back. One of the boys was severely injured."

"You're coming here to tell me that my son is in trouble for defending himself?" I demanded, refusing to let myself dwell on the more obvious questions: Since when does Charles fight? Since when does he go into the market at night, and since when does he sneak out, since the only way out is past the parlor or the kitchen, and either the maid or one of us would have taken note?

"I went over to try and break things up," the officer continued. "The boy who had started it all was bleeding pretty badly, and I needed to see if he needed any attention. Your son saw me and took off. Someone gave chase. I wasn't going to arrest him, but I needed to know what had happened."

"I thought you said you'd seen it." The officer looked uncomfortable.

"I did," he said. "But I have no idea what happened. One minute, there was a typical boys' fight, the next, pandemonium." Ignoring the implication that the fine law enforcement in this city apparently does not bother with kids beating each other up, I waited.

"He ran away," the officer repeated. "I yelled that they shouldn't chase him, but they did."

"So where is he now?" I demanded, realizing that in every story you hear of wayward boys getting taken home by the police, the boy is usually there with the officer.

"The light was poor, and he ran across the street," he said. "There was a cab coming, and neither could stop in time. He's been taken to the hospital."

At that moment, the silence in the room seemed to grow very loud. Father reached out to steady my arm, and I shook it off.

"He'll need some things, then," I said, heading off towards his room.

"Sir," the officer said. "I must implore you to hurry. It was quite a bad accident."

"Well then he won't want to stay in those clothes," I muttered, insanely determined that I pack him a bag before heading to the hospital. I have no idea why.

Outside the door of his room, it hit me full-force that my son was hurt, very badly injured, in very serious condition. I had seen him for all of two hours in weeks and weeks, and now he was hurt. I had no idea why he would want to go to the market, why he wouldn't have just asked.

I pushed open his bedroom door and noticed the window propped open, answering an earlier question. I went to gather some clothes, his favorite pillow, and noticed that the room was in unusual disarray. I pushed aside the textbooks and reference papers to unearth the pillow, adding pointless things to the parcel in a panic, and then Father was there, urging me out the door, telling me to stop with the nonsense of packing, there's time for that later, we need to go now, right now, I beg you, hurry, and I went.


	16. Chapter 15

-1Charles:

They don't know exactly what the matter is, and it's driving me insane, almost literally. Charles won't wake up, and I'm stuck sitting here, staring at the wall, waiting for some kind of answer.

The doctors think he'll live, though he's been badly injured. Funny how his face is the least of everyone's concerns now. Even the nurses are being attentive, ignoring the fact that his birth defects are still worse looking than the cuts, bruises and swelling that resulted from a carriage not seeing a little boy on the edge of a dim street.

I wish I could fix this. I have no idea what he was doing out so late, or why he was fighting. Though he's always been stubborn, he hasn't displayed much of a temper since his youngest years. He might sulk, or talk back, but he never raised his voice to either his grandfather or me, never really even slammed a door! I have no idea what could have provoked him so. I could guess, but I'd rather not dwell on that. I don't want his life to be one that hinges solely on his appearance. My career was so influenced by the fact that I was an attractive young person. I can't believe that bothered me so much then, when I see all my son is battling.

And yet, I can clamor on about the intolerance of others and their ineptitude to accept anyone who is different, but I'm the one who wouldn't even try to send him to school. I'm the father who brought tutors in and sheltered him, taking him to church, but sitting in the back, never inviting anyone over to play with him. I never really had a lot of friends until I went away to school as an older boy, so it never really occurred to me that I might be doing Charles a disservice by not exposing him to other children.

If I had, might they not have reacted this way? Or am I simply trying to find a way to blame myself for this? I had no idea this would happen, I can't help that my more than capable son snuck out, and I can't believe it's because I went away. Father says this behavior started a few weeks after my departure- I can't imagine his reactions would be so delayed that I can connect the two. I want to believe that. It has to be true.

Is it bad I find myself longing for Josephine? If she were here, if she were his mother, we would be waiting together, supporting each other. Instead, it's Father and I, but if I thought he was despondent before, it was nothing compared to now. He refuses to speak to anyone.  
If she were here, we would be sharing stories about Charles, speaking to the doctors together.

If she were here, if she had been here, had been there, perhaps Charles would not have been so lonely after all.

But if had met her years ago, not Rosalind, he might not be here at all.

Finally, at an hour far too obscene for me to recall, the doctor emerged.

"He is comfortable," he said. "I believe the worst is over, but there's no telling when he might awake. I would advise you and your father to return home and get a good night's rest. You can come back tomorrow."

I started to protest, but stopped when I saw Father's face. It was tired and drawn, and I knew I wasn't looking much better.

"Father, let's go home."

"I don't think we should leave him here alone," he protested, his stubbornness emerging despite the fatigue.

"I daresay he won't know the difference," I said, guiding him to the doors.

break

In the carriage, the tension was enough to make the air vibrate. It continued until we were in the house, when finally I could take it no longer. Something was going on, something had been going on all evening, and it had nothing to do with my son.

"What is it?" I demanded with uncharacteristic sharpness. I saw the shock register on Father's face. I had not used that tone with him in years, but the evening had proved too much for my patience. The force in my voice caused him to take a step backward.

"Charles, now is not the time," he said. "We can discuss it later, but with all that's happened-"

"No," I said, my tone level but the intent clear. "I won't have whatever this is on top of everything else. Tell me. Tell me tonight."

He didn't protest, though he looked angry. We sat in the parlor. I knew I wasn't sleeping that night, but I don't think I would have in any case.

"Start at the beginning," I said. "Whatever it is, just start at the beginning and leave nothing out. I don't want to have a thousand of these conversations."

Whatever force my tone had held was gone, and Father suddenly looked rather stubborn.

"How dare you address me like that?" he demanded. "Show some respect!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "But you've been trying to get this off of your chest all night, and it's made this a lot more difficult. I can't be worried about him and you, and you're here. I can talk to you. Please," I said, a lot more gently than before, "what's happened?"

I had never seen my father look so old, and that was saying something.

"Promise me something," he said. "Promise me that whatever I tell you, we will discuss it. We'll talk about it. I don't want to destroy this family over something like this."

I suddenly realized that I didn't want him to continue, that I really didn't want to know, and was tempted to tell him so. I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I needed to hear whatever he had to tell me.

"I promise," I said.

He took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell me the most incredible story I'd ever heard.

"Your mother and I met when we were children, grew up together" he said. "I ran into the ocean after her scarf once, and I don't think I could have forgotten her for a moment after that even if I tried. She was so beautiful. I see so much of her in you. But we never saw each other after that day, not for a long time. I went into business, your grandfather's occupation. She left the country, her father died."

I listened with interest, for though I had heard these bare-bones details before, I knew little else, save for their second meeting at the opera, and subsequent courtship, which I knew had rocked their social world's boat.

"And then years later I met her at the opera house," he said. "I had just become its newest patron, and by chance your mother had been called to take the place of the house's acclaimed diva." He laughed. "You know, I never studied much music, but even I knew she was terrible. Carlotta, I mean, not your mother. She was a divine singer, but then, you knew that. I wish you could have heard her sing then."

"The conservatory," I said. "She must have had a great teacher."

"She did," he said rather shortly. "She had the best teacher in the world. He was a genius with music, and he spent all of his time making Christine sound like the angel she was." I had never heard Father wax so eloquent about anything before. He never struck me as a romantic, and while I knew they loved each other, my parents had always seemed to have a cool kind of affection, not at all what we French are supposed to be like. But now I was thinking about Josephine. I forced myself to focus on father instead.

"Had he no other students?" I asked.

"Just her," he replied. "He was very demanding, I think most singers would never have been able to match the devotion he commanded. For six months, I wasn't even allowed to take your mother to dinner, lest she tire too easily. She frustrated him, and I know he drove her mad at times, but under his guide, she flourished vocally. He loved teaching her. He loved her."

"He loved her?"

"Indeed. More than I think anyone has ever loved anyone else." He said it without remorse or anger, a simple fact that, in his mind, could not be denied.

"Poor mother," I said. I knew all too well how annoying doting people could be. I had one girl in Greece, once, who would constantly be outside of my hotel when I had occasion to leave it- of course, she swore it was by chance, but when I finally understood her ploy, and had manufactured a good enough story about a waiting mistress to dissuade her, she became unbearable. I thought it would turn her away, it only made her more determined. That was one tour I did not regret to see the end of!

"Yes, it was a very trying time for all of us," he said. "I think it was hardest on her. She had two men who loved her, would do anything for her, and had to pick one."

"You must have bought her something very nice," I teased. Instead of the laugh I anticipated, I could have sworn his expression darkened. I was sure he'd end the conversation there, but he pressed on.

"In the end, she chose us both."

For the next hour, I listened in disbelief as he told me about the most twisted love triangle I'd ever heard of. My mother had been in love with some madman! And she'd loved father, too, who seemed a bit like a madman himself as the story unfolded! I couldn't believe some of the thing he told me, and yet I had to. And suddenly, I understood why my French-born father had raised me in London.

"So that's why you went to England," I said. "He let her go and of course you left." I could imagine myself doing the same thing, rescuing Josephine under the cover of night, taking her away from some danger, recreating ourselves in a little house on some seashore…

"Not quite," he said. "We didn't leave for England for some time. We didn't even marry for weeks."

"Whyever not?" I asked. "Surely you didn't heed his request, you didn't go back to his home!"

"No," he said. "I would never have allowed that. But your mother went anyway, with a wedding invitation, almost precisely 24 hours before our ceremony. It was hours before I knew she had gone, and longer before I found her."

"Was he very angry?" I asked.

"He was dead."

"Dead?"

"Or he died soon after we left," he said. "I'm still not sure precisely. We left, and married a month later."

"Why did you wait?" I didn't want his answer, but I had to know why he was telling me all this. He sighed, and I could tell it was taking him all he could to continue. I gave him credit for that.

"It was Ch- your mother's idea," he said. "She said after all she had put me through, she wanted me to be sure I could forgive her for everything."

"And you did," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "I did. And it was strange, because I had no idea what she meant. She went back there, which made me angry, in fact, I had told her I wouldn't marry her if she defied me. But the moment I saw she was safe, we both knew I didn't mean that. We got married, and a few months later, you came along. But it was difficult, and the doctor said there were to be no more children."

I had figured as much, but still wasn't sure where he was going.

"She loved you so much," he said. "I know you know that. And I loved you, too, still do love you. You are my only son, and I hope you'll keep that in mind with what I have to tell you." He drew in a deep breath, steadied himself, and turned his face from me.

"Her teacher did not live in a house," he said. "He lived below the steps of the Paris Opera, in a home he built into the very foundations of the opera. He built that opera house."

And suddenly I remembered that night when we had gone to the opera, and Father mentioned a friend of mother's, a friend who had been dead a little longer than I'd been alive.

"Erik?" I said, remembering a name I had given little thought to since that night. "Erik, the architect, was her music teacher?"

"Erik was many things," he said. "He was a genius. But he was very bad with people. He didn't have much cause to be, you see, as life had been very cruel to him."

"Cruel? To a man as intelligent as you say? But how can that be?"

"Because Erik- whose last name I still do not know, despite everything, was born with a very bad disfigurement."

It was like time had stopped. I didn't need him to continue, and, given the fact that he was now trying very hard not to cry, was sure he wouldn't have been able in any case. I needed no clarification. The puzzle pieces that had been shifting in my mind since I was old enough to reason suddenly snapped together.

"No nose," I said. "Sunken eyes." I could see this man, standing tall, as easily as I could imagine my own son, but would not allow myself to put together the final pieces, would not allow myself to make that next jump, that if this Erik were somehow related to my son, then I was not, could not be- but I dared not even think it. This man was my father. My father! Not some monster under the ground! Wildly, I jumped up and began pacing. I walked faster and faster, not wanting it to be true, wishing that if I could somehow outthink what I had been told, out-reason the possibilities, then it wouldn't be true at all. It would be nothing more than a sordid story that Father had heard somewhere else, a scary story to be told by firelight, the monster under the opera, a ghost, a murderer, a phantom.

"Did mother ever-"

"We never talked about it," he said. "But she knew I understood."

"Does anyone else-"

"No, they never connected the two." I noticed he was interrupting me, not letting me finish the questions. "No one knew. But I'm afraid that may change."

"Why?" I was suddenly fearful, upset. "I don't understand…if people had no idea before, they won't think of it now!"

"All I can think of is that this new generation didn't hear the old stories," he said. "It seems so significant to us, but really, the events of one year hardly register to anyone they do not directly impact. But someone has been doing his research, and I fear this is going to reach a much larger audience."

And suddenly, with a deadly thud, the last puzzle piece fell into place.

"Charles? Charles?" He must have asked my name five times before I finally gave him my attention, and then, I lied.

"I'm sorry- Father," I said. The word was somehow difficult for me, but I saw him relax when I said it. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about this right now."

I left him there, sitting by the fire, his last statement unanswered. I let him believe the news that I was some bastard child of a murderer was what had silenced me, but it wasn't. As devastating as that was, the man who had tortured my father, defiled my mother and ruined their lives had managed to reach beyond the grave and deliver one last blow to the child he never knew.

The Phantom of the Opera. It was book I hadn't known existed until I learned my son had been in an accident, when I found it among his bedclothes and packed it with his things.

He knew the truth before I did, and it nearly killed him. I was certain if Father ever found out, for I can only assume the book came into the house by his hand, it would be his end.


	17. Chapter 16

A/N: I am so sorry to have kept this so long. I have no excuses other than life getting in the way of, well, everything. This is going to be a short one, but I wanted to jump back in. I'm like that awful boyfriend who tells you he'll call and then keeps not doing it. Sorry. :(

They say things look better in the light of day.

They lie.

I woke up this morning and lay in bed for a moment, waiting for that sense of relief to wash over me, the feeling you get when you realize that it really isn't so bad, after all. Perhaps it was the night, you rationalize, or the brandy, or the exhaustion that comes from learning too much at once, but when you have some time to put it all in perspective, it's not really so bad.

I lay there for five minutes, then ten, waiting for that feeling to wash over me. It didn't come. The longer I stayed in bed, the more anxious I became. I felt trapped, like there was no place I could go that would put me far enough from this. I wanted to go downstairs, where Father was inevitably waiting, as I assume he spent the night, and confront him. I wanted to demand more information. And at the same time, I wanted to avoid looking at him for as long as possible.

How could she?

How could he?

How could he have kept this from me? I suppose many of my friends at boarding school were in similar predicaments, but their dubious paternity hardly held the ramifications mine did! Of course, my dubious paternity had also led to my success at music, the only thing in which I had found such a level of pleasure.

But what would I have done with the information? Honestly, what good could it possibly have done? I realized I really didn't care why Mother had gone back to that man. Le Fantome. I realized the friendship Father and Mother shared was just that, and nothing more, just like the hostility between Rosalind and I was just that, and nothing more, without even an underlying passion in the end to make the fighting that much more bearable. She had loved this other man more than she had loved my father, and the smaller details of how she managed to reunite with him, how Father could have let her go, how she could have behaved in a relatively obvious fashion, ceased to matter.

I knew that all that mattered now was getting out of Paris. And I knew where I would go. Perhaps running away isn't the best thing to do, but I wouldn't be running, not really, I rationalized. My work, my career, would bring me back to the city I so loved from time to time. All I would be doing was taking my son away from the environment that had almost killed him. It wasn't going to get any easier, I realized, as more people read what I could only assume was a pulpy venture into the world of grim histrionics. And I would be with the woman I loved. Mother would surely approve, I thought grimly. And my father - not Father - but my father, would surely understand as well. After what Father told me of Erik, I daresay he ran more than anyone else.

Of course, first my son had to live through the week.

Raoul

I'm a fool. I don't know why I thought this could stay a secret forever.

I wonder when I'll stop feeling guilty for one thing or another. For letting her go, for keeping her with me. For keeping her secrets, for upsetting the boy I raised. For allowing my grandson to be put through this misery because I was too weak to stop her, too prideful to tell the truth.

That's the problem with the theater - even a good play has to come down sometime, and then even the most elaborate, beautiful sets are reduced to something of little more value than common firewood.

I'm going back to London. It's time I stopped pretending Charles needed me and started understanding that whenever I try to do something, I cause more harm than good.

After Charles went to bed, I left for home, despite the early morning hour. I haven't slept yet, and it shows. I can't get away with that kind of behavior anymore, I'm far too old. Even when I was young, I was far too incapable of dealing with the consequences of my actions.  
I should have let her go and never looked back. I should have done as my friends advised and married a pretty, rich girl with an established family and an empty head, a porcelain doll to dress up and take to parties and show off, someone who would have given me an heir and made my father proud. But I didn't, and I can't regret that. I love her.

With that love comes a guilt from which I cannot be free. I have a beautiful son, but I lied and cheated to get the honor to raise him. If I hadn't taken her then, if Erik hadn't died, how might it have been then? Would she have come back to me, a beautiful widow? Would she have had the audacity to ask me to have her?

I know the answer to that. She never would have dared. And I still would have moved heaven and earth to take her anyway.

I am too old for this. I imagine I am close to the age Erik was when he first fell in love with Christine. I can't imagine taking up with someone Charles' age right now, I'm far too tired. And yet, I'm in excellent health. I used to think it was morbidly triumphant that I had outlived the man who once all but swore he'd track me to the ends of the earth, and once again I realize how wrong I was. These thoughts play through my mind endlessly, moreso now that young Charles is so ill. But the doctors are hopeful, and I think he will be fine.

He has to be.

I've already started making arrangements, and as soon as young Charles pulls through, I will leave them to have as much of a normal life as possible. Perhaps Paris will be kinder to him than it was to his grandfather.


End file.
